Metamorphosis
by BamItsTyler
Summary: "On the one-hundredth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that all members of society had a role to play in the uprising against the Capitol, the reaping pool has now been expanded. Citizens between the ages of nineteen to sixty-five are now eligible." - Welcome one and all, to the Fourth Quarter Quell.
1. Prologue I: Wetwork

_**A/N:** _Yo, writer in the making!

Merry Christmas and Happy Near Year when it comes...Here's hoping you guys have time to submit to this.

Tyler's back with a sequel! If you have free time, be sure to check out _"Calamity_ " on my profile to get further information pertaining to the prologues and the state of my universe. "Calamity" and "Camelot" are basically stepping stones into this SYOT. All the information pertaining to this SYOT will be found on my profile as well.

With all that being said and done.. _.BamItsTyler Studios_ is pleased to present to you...

* * *

 ** _Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games._**

 _ **Prologue I: Wetwork**_

* * *

 _ **[REDACTED], 27,**_  
 _ **[REDACTED]**_

 _ **Helena, District 1,**_  
 _ **October 31st, 2161 (98th HG)**_

* * *

A Peacekeeper, Master Sergeant Garrick, tips his visored helmet as we cross paths. He was an older Peacekeeper, a reenlisted member judging by his paper white mustache and wrinkling features. We cross paths frequently, as he's stationed at One's Hall of Justice. At any other given time, his warm persona would be a welcomed sight…right now however proves the _opposite_. As leave the elevator I come face to face with the PK, forced to engage to keep up appearances.

"Good afternoon, young lady!" He greets, flashing me a kind smile. His smile falters, however, as he regards my clothing – a blouson, leggings and sturdy, knee-high boots.

"If you don't mind me saying, you look like an academy instructor with that getup."

"Master Sergeant Garrick!" I trill, ignoring the question altogether. I could taste the faux affection as the words rolled off my lips. "What brings you to the _Shangri-La?"_

" _Ohh_ just warning some disgruntled hooligans against flying a distasteful banner along the parade route," he replies. "I didn't know _you_ lived here…?"

"Oh yes…this condominium is like a slice of home. I couldn't pass up the opportunity." I chirp, risking a quick glance at my communicuff. _T-minus six minutes…_

"I was a Capitol Guardsman once upon a time…Back in the HG Seventies, during the War. Now that you say that I can see what you're saying, they _always say_ District One is the mini Capitol, and this place _screams it._ " he replies.

"I bet you're glad the liaison office is closed early today, you wouldn't want to miss the big event, hm? It's not every day the President of Panem visits town y'know."

"Mhm," I hum, stifling my annoyance. "With Governor Westenfluss being who she is _and_ a victor on top of it, well, we assumed that no tangible office work would get done today…or tomorrow, or the day after that."

"Yup, I don't know how she does it…being a victor _and_ the leader of a district. The people sure do love her though. Keeps the District unified, unlike others..."

"Uh huh…" I mumble, swaying on the balls of my feet.

"Well, I'll let you go settle down then." He finishes, peering down at my 'luggage'. "Say…Miss, would you like help with those bags? A young lady like you shouldn't be hauling-"

I vigorously wave him off. " _No, no, no,_ that won't be necessary! I live right at 1007 over there, I'll be just fine."

"Well alright miss...you have yourself a restful evening. Maybe I'll see you at the Justice Hall again." with a final nod and his hands crossed behind his back, he makes way down the hall towards another group of conversing passerbys.

With t-minus four minutes on the clock, I quickly zip up the stairs to the mostly vacant eleventh floor, forcing my way into the designated apartment and shutting the door behind me.

…

As I enter the apartment, my associate drops his binoculars to his side, looking less than pleased as he rolls his eyes while tutting at me playfully. "Hmph, there you are. I almost started to think you were bailing out on us."

"I was preoccupied." I reply flatly, "My clock says t-minus three minutes. What's the status on our friends?"

"In position and ready to go." He replies, sliding open the balcony door. The joyous chatter of the spectators below could be heard as a clear as day.

"Good." I reply, placing my luggage onto the table and flicking its tabs upward to reveal the contents of my luggage. Just like back in basic, I extend the barrel, place it into the stock and use the allan key to fasten it in place. Next is the magazine – _twenty rounds_ just to be safe – the scope and a forward grip. Panem knows it'll be needed for the recoil. As I finish cocking the bolt, my associate and I watch as the motorcycle escort comes into view. I can't help feel confused as to why the minds in higher places waited so long to put this into action. Then again I suppose there's only _so much_ change the higher minds could tolerate. Giving the districts some more breathing room, sure...but ending the Hunger Games?! Ha.

Though my career is short, I've deciphered my fair share of _Agency_ dossiers...well, dossiers that weren't marred with _black ink._ With false-flags, forgery and foul-play dating back to Panem's inception...the _Agency_ has engaged in dozens of wetwork ops.

This one however was the most _lucrative_ yet. So many ramifications...so many paths.

"Ready?" he asks, watching as I slip on a pair of disposable gloves and plop buds into my ears.

"As I'll ever be..." I reply, moving onto the balcony as the cheering reaches fever pitch. Looking at it all now, a promenade-like highway with multiple buildings with various heights… buildings in which _no one_ would pay ample attention to due to the large amount of onlookers on _their_ balconies, I've decided this op'll be easier than shooting a bunch of _groosling in a pen_. I take position, bracing against the railing for leverage. Peering into the scope, I watch as the people of the hour approach the Prospect Avenue Bridge. The _target_ and his wife dressed in an off-white dress wave to the crowds on either side of the promenade. _V66_ is situated in the back of the cabin. The higher ups say the wife and 66 are both acceptable collateral. It was an open car, black with flags draped on the hood, sparkling hubcaps and whitewalls, fancy ivory interior…the mess will look poignant on camera.

"Standby..."

The limousine slows down enough for me to line up my sights with the man in question, who moves to stand up. My finger solidifies against the trigger, itching to be pulled back.

I'm clapped on the back repeatedly. "We're green, we're green!"

Pivoting from the right to the left, I empty my magazine haphazardly into to the limousine and its occupants. The red mist that erupts from its passengers, alongside the cacophony of horrified screams is enough to tell me the job is done. I watch as the car slams into a median, the sickening crunch of the front fender imploding resonating through the promenade as the screams of shock reach fever pitch.

"Let's move!"

He doesn't need to tell me twice. I'm quick to disassemble the rifle in question, tossing the receiver over the balcony. As we tumble into the hallway and I finish chucking the remaining evidence down the garbage chute, the audible whine of a plasma weapon being drawn could be heard.

"Hold it right there, or Panem help me _I will_ vape you!"

Master Sergeant Garrick blocks our path, his sidearm drawn. The shock and confusion is evident on his face as the handgun shuffles from me to my associate. " _Freeze_ , put your hands in the air!"

I put on my Justice Building persona, placing my hands to my chest as I begin to slowly move towards the old Peacekeeper. "Sergeant Garrick..."

Garrick shakes his head with vigor. "I don't want to hear it, I saw what I saw. Put your hands in the air, _NOW_!"

My associate is quick to raise his hands into the air, providing ample cover as I withdraw my sidearm and place two shots into Master Sergeant Garrick's chest. As the two violet bolts of plasma pierce him, he lets out a pained cry and doubles backward before falling hard onto the floor.

My associate's eyes shift from the body to my smoking gun. I holster my weapon, cursing under my breath as I reclaim my bearings. I begin to recall the _first_ rule of the trade - _absolutely no witnesses_...even if they are boys in white. As the whole floor fills with muffled screams and exclamations of confusion, it takes a slug to the shoulder to get my male companion to focus.

" _Come on_ , time is of the essence!"

He nods once, joining me as we sprint towards the exit and into the stairwell. Once we glide the floors one by one, reach the lobby, avoid the squads of Peacekeepers who storm the condominium and exit the building, we do what many agents of the _Panem Intelligence Agency_ do...we fade into the mass of panicking citizens, becoming your _teachers, clerks and neighbors_ once more, _vigilanti semper_ , awaiting the order to perform our _services_ once more.


	2. Prologue II: Deliberations

_**A/N:** _In which some of my victors deliberate President Kane's asssassination and their role in picking up the pieces, and introducing the two candidates that go head to head for control the nation. One who's intentions are just, while the other...not so just. A lot of this is greatly detailed in _"Calamity_ " but there are people new to my "headcanon" that maybe a tad confused, so this chapter is a gist of whats going on.

So far, so good when it comes to submissions. Its quasi first come first serve? You guys are pretty good at making submissions at this point so its better to just accept what I get, right? As long as they have ample detail they should be accepted? There's plenty of spaces, so tell your friends!

* * *

 _ **Prologue II**_

* * *

ARE YOU "IN THE KNOW!?"

YOUR NEWS THIS WEEK, NOVEMBER 1st – 7th, 2161

 ** _*A Panem Broadcasting Corporation Newsreel MMCLXI*_**

 ** _"PRESIDENT KANE ASSASSINATED IN DISTRICT ONE"_**

 ** _Voiced By: Chad Blakely_**

 _President Agesilaus Socrates Kane, the 34th President of Panem, is dead._

 _For the first time since the Dark Days, another Panemian president has been struck down by the foulest among us. A barrage of shots fired at his motorcade as it paraded through the downtown core of Helena._

 _That's not all, a member of President Kane's Guard and a Peacekeeper pursuing a pair of suspects were killed on the line of duty. Governor of District One Serene Westenfluss was also injured during the attack, suffering a fractured arm._

 _It seemed like a day like any other in District One. Smiling face and boisterous crowds as Mr. and Mrs. Kane arrived off of the presidential bullet train. Look now at the Prospect Avenue Bridge and Promenade, articles of items discarded, Peacekeepers sifting through the blood soaked highway to figure out just **how** this dastardly deed performed._

 _Thankfully, the thick of this crime is over as our noble peacekeepers nabbed multiple suspects after they fled the scene. Their names won't be spoken here, however let it be known that a mandatory viewing showcasing their execution shall be aired November 9th._

 _It was a gloomy day in Panem's crown jewel today as dignitaries from the world's remnant nations and throughout Panem attended the funeral of our slain President. Look at them all, Victors, entertainers, intellectuals, generals, politicians from all levels in Panem come together as one to see President Kane off._

 _Following the horse-drawn procession to Kane's internment, Interim President of Panem, Viondra Celine DeWynter, addressed the National Assembly today, revealing shocking news!_

 _"Ladies and gentlemen, I am here today to assure you that Kane's work does not end with him. Which as of next week, I shall instruct Chief Magistrate Katherine Odin to dissolve the National Assembly and the Presidency – therefore setting an election date for sometime in 2162, starting off the decade anew with fresh leadership!"_

 _"As an independent candidate, I shall be the first to vie for re-confirmation as your 35th President of Panem. What better way to carry on our beloved president's legacy by enhancing our electoral process? Like President Kane, I genuinely believe that Panem as a whole – both Capitol and Districts – serve as the lasting tribute to the darkest days behind. As his Vice President, I shall carry on his policy of bolstering Panem's greatness. To those watching from the shores of Snow Island to District 12 – I urge the leader-minded members of your communities to throw their names into the race so we as one nation can continue to build upon the progress Agesilaus Kane began!"_

 _There you have it, citizens, a national election set for next year! I think we can say without a doubt that Panemians will continue to watch President DeWynter with intrigue._

 _Well…Now you know._

* * *

 ** _Rafaela Novia, 18, Snow Island_**  
 ** _Victor of the 95th Hunger Games_**

 _ **Capitol City, Panem**_  
 _ **November 7th, 2161 (98th HG)**_

* * *

"And now may I present to you, the extremely talented _Nakashima Brothers! Roy, Francis, Rourke, Fabian come on down!_ "

The Oriental quadruplets, with their slicked hair and matching blue blazers, take the stage to thunderous applause. Lead by Roy, the pop heartthrob clutches the nearest microphone, tilting it and himself towards the crowd whilst shooting us a seductive and devious grin.

"A one, _two, ah one, two three, four!_ "

The opening riff of a guitar is enough to make the entire lounge stop and turn toward the stage. "Alright, alright! C'mon," as the riff is joined by drums, cellos and woodwinds, the women in the crowd squeal with glee upon recognition of the tune, dragging their friends and partners alike to the dance floor as Roy and his band start up another audience favorite.

 _Like the legend of the phoenix,_ _All ends with beginnings.  
_ _What keeps the planet spinning, t_ _he force of love beginning._

Roy's brothers join in now, each grabbing a microphone and performing the same lockstep twirls and shimmy's that have taken the entire nation by storm.

 _Well we've come too far to give up, who we arre!  
_ _So let's, raise the barr and our cups, to the starrrs!  
_ _We're up all night 'for good fun  
_ _We're up all night to get some  
_ _We're up all night till the sun  
_ _We're up all night to get lucky_

 _We're up all night 'til the sun We're up all night to get some We're up all night for good fun We're up all night to get lucky_

The orchestra blends all its components well, as the crowd engages in vigorous lindy hops without a care in the world. Having spent nearly five years among them as one of their _'darling victors'_ , I _still_ don't entirely get how they operate. It's like being a spectator at a zoo, as if the Capitol is a world onto itself. _Whatever_ , as long as they continue to shower me with praise and riches I could care less about political squabbles.

I've earned my right to never worry again.

"I'll take a sparkling water, por favor." I say, swiveling back towards the barkeep.

Star struck like any other Capitol, the young man flashes me a toothy smile. "Any flavor in particular, Ms. Novia?"

"Make it a lemon." I reply with a genuine smile in return.

"Sure thing Ms. Novia. May I say that your Games gave me the chills for _months_?"

Adjusting my glasses, I turn my attention back to the crowd of joyous Capitolites. I can't help but roll my eyes at their ingenuidad - _lack of awareness._ Their president's _head_ was _blown off_ in an open car yet they go on partying anyway even though we just buried the man mere _hours ago._ Clouded by my thoughts, I failed to notice a pair of hands snake around my waist and caress me.

I freeze, and my breath hitches as a husky District One accent drawls " _Ignorance is bliss, ain't it Novia?_ "

If I were a cat, I'd purr at the advance. However, I'm not keen on giving Glisten Hemingway, Victor of the Eighty-Ninth Hunger Games any more satisfaction. His Panem-wide ego is _big enough_ …Although given the history between he and I, the District 1 victor has ample ammo to use against me.

" _Mierda_ , Glisten. I swear I was about to break this tumbler over your head…" I scowl, gulping down my tonic water as fast as the barkeep set it down. He leans against the counter, that idiotic smirk spread across his mug.

"Luckily you didn't! The press would have a field day and concussions ain't pretty, you should know." He jeers, gesturing towards my prescribed shades. Where I wouldn't with anyone else, I find myself adjusting my circular glasses in a bout of insecurity. The enthusiasts out there say that I took the most knocks to the head than any other tribute in Games history, _ten_ blows to be exact. The doctors were surprised I wasn't condemned to a wheelchair or something. I didn't escape _completely_ unscathed from the haunted mansion that was my arena. If I were to take off these shades, I'd immediately begin seeing double and puking up my dinner. And I can't forget bout my _ghostly_ white skin - the result of my arena's muttation blood bleaching my once tanned complexion signature to Snow Islanders.

As I frown in annoyance, his hand drifts from my knee high white boots towards my bare thigh just below where my black and white ' _quadrant'_ dress begins. " _Groovy_ getup Novia…" he purrs, licking his lips. "You look _fab_ in checkers. Why'd you leave so early?"

I swat his hand Capitol has done away with the ugly make up and overly extravagant silks and shifted to suits, sweaters and dresses of 'lesser' intricacy. The say the Second Rebellion prompted a change due to lack of material. The Districts have even caught on with this fashion choice, as seen with my dress and Glistens cardigan and turtleneck. "Twenty-one sixty chic…Gotta look _'fab'_ for the magazines. And what, _Panem's ladykiller_ doesn't have _more_ girls to charm?"

He lets out a low rumble of a chuckle. "They're _different_. I actually _enjoy_ having you around…"

My grin threatens to take up the entirety of my face. "I bet you say that _every girl_ you screw."

"Not that I mean it."

"Riiight…"

He gestures a hand toward the partygoers. "I wish I could be as carefree as they are…"

"It's all part of the system…" I mutter, earning a nod and a grin from the elder victor.

"Unfortunately for us, we need to reevaluate _our part_ yet again." He replies, nodding off to another direction. "Zenobia's already secured a room, let's go."

I let out a sigh, tipping the barkeep before hopping off the stool. "Lead the way, Hemingway."

We find ourselves pushing through the crowds of gawking admirers towards a more secluded section of the club. On the way we pass Jasper Rankine and Everett Danton flirting with a batch of admirers, although a playful whistle from Glisten is enough to prompt them bid their adieus.

The four of us enter a room with a view that overlooks the sparkling skyline of the Capitol. The white and red tulip chairs alongside the circular table that supported them served as an epitome of the city's current design trends. District One's Serene Westenfluss and Kaiser Neumann watch on with Jason Christos of Two as they mull over footage of Kane's assassination. As Serene nurses her cast where a bullet struck her, the two men down their brandy-filled glasses, shaking their heads in disbelief as the back of President Kane's head is blown open by a bullet, painting the ivory limousine interior red with gore.

As Kaiser lets out an astonished whistle, Jason turns to the Governor. "…And you say you didn't see _anything_ amiss during the approach to the bridge?"

" _No_ , nothing at all," Serene breathes, shuddering as she recalls the day in question. "It was just like any other day. People cheering, smiling, confetti raining down…its funny, the last thing I said to him was that he _'didn't see anything yet'_. Who would've thought what happened… _happened?"_

Within the duration of ten minutes, the majority of the victors found their way into the room. Recognizable faces such as the airheaded Cessna Embraer and her pet Chihuahua stuffed into her purse, Joyceta and Francisco stuck together like glue as per usual, the Linscott-Gordon siblings alongside Zinnia. Celosia Vale of aides a buzzed Annabelle Starling of to her seat as Zenobia Rivendell barges through the doors, clutching a blitzed Silvia Starr and Koller Ascort from the scruffs of their collars.

"Of all the bloody times to get stoned, you two dolts choose to do it _now_?! Take a seat." She snarls, shoving them forward as the morphlings stumble to their chairs.

"There's _never_ a bad time to be on cloud nine, Rivendell." Retorts Koller. "If your shitty academy got closed down, you'd be shooting up too."

"Right on…" coos Silvia in dopey agreement.

Zenobia's face flushes with disdain, scoffing as she cranes her head towards Gwendolyn. "Faraday, is everyone accounted for?"

The District 3 Victor, her eyes still trained on her PDA, flashes a thumbs up. Zenobia nods while peering out the door, glancing both ways before sealing us in. Gwendolyn then places a electronic device on the middle of the table…we wouldn't want any espias – _spooks_ , listening in on our conversation.

"So…" Zenobia begins with a pleasant smile on her face as she strides nonchalantly around the circular table. "That was quite a week that transpired…"

"When _millions_ of hopes and dreams for a better world are literally scattered into the _fucking wind, 'quite a week'_ doesn't cut it." laments Piper Malveaux.

"Gettin' yer head blown off on live television is one helluva way to go," says Annabelle. "It don't get more brazen than that…"

Zinnna Parsons breathes out an exasperated sigh, rising out of her chair. "President Kane was humble, h-he was _decent…_ how could they _do this!?"_

"And here I thought things would finally change…" adds Ainsely in her typical depressive fashion.

"Don't be _naïve,_ " I scoff, taking a drag of my cigarette. "How you guys say it? Mess with the bull, _get the horns_? You _honestly thought_ something that big would be carried through to fruition?" The man was _jodidamente loco_ for trying to end the Capitol's _foundation_. In my books, _DeWynter_ was president from the moment I was crowned victor and was invited to her office five years ago. The various meetings and social engagements that followed only solidified that.

Zinnia's brown skin flushes red. "Listen, I know Snow Island is new to how things work around here-"

I let out a cackle, tapping my cigarette to lose the dregs on the end. "-Yet we've found our place within a _decade_. Can any of you outliers really say the same?"

The career victors around the room nod in agreement, while others show reluctance or anger at my retort. I could care less about their scornful looks, as they all should know the game by now. Kane tried to change the system and paid the price for it. It's happened time and time again, only this time _they_ were more...' _exotic_ ' in their display.

"Me? I'm just surprised it took this long to off him," chimes Clarence Linscott-Gordon. "The old man was too honest for the world he played in."

"It'd be _way_ too obvious," Kaiser replies, "We'd be fighting a _third_ rebellion if they did it any earlier."

"We should be fighting one _now_ given the stipulations," says Piper, "The Quarter Quell is right around the corner-"

Zenobia points to the District 5 victor, tapping her temple with a devious smirk on her lips. "-And what _better way_ to sway the masses than with a groundbreaking announcement like the one Vice-President DeWynter delivered this afternoon?"

" _President DeWynter…"_ says Jason with a twinge of confusion and bitterness. "It feels so foreign…the woman basically was _de facto president_ anyway. All she needed was a window of opportunity."

"Actually, she's _interim_ president." Jasper corrects, gulping down a bowl of sweetened cherries.

" _Yes_ , but the news talks about her as if she's _already_ president. She _is._ If you ask me, she's tying up loose ends with this election call." adds Clarence. " _Masterful_ move on her part."

"Greeeeeat...another leg for you to hump. Luckily you didn't have to wait long, eh Clarence?" Silvia Starr snorts, prompting many outlying Victors to follow her notion. Although a glare from Zenobia was enough to quell any necessary arguments.

Gwendolyn continues to swipe away on her communicuff. "I-I-I somehow d-d-d-doubt DeWynter's p-political enemies will allow this power vacuum to p-p-pass…At the end of the d-day as soon as these elections kick off, I _doubt_ any p-p-party will honor the results so easily."

Zenobia nods, "Which is why I propose we all support DeWynter."

The room is quick to explode with murmurs and the flashing of quick glances to one another.

" _Look_ , we all know what happens when victors choose the wrong side of history. DeWynter due to her connections and familial prominence has ties to the banks, civil service, the Peacekeepers _and_ the respective security agencies. If there's an attempt to seize power _regardless_ of the results, I bet my bottom dollar DeWynter will come out on top."

" _'Sides'_ go both ways, Zenobia," Says Jason. "I don't know about all of you, but I'm staying hard _neutral_. This is all just one _dog and pony show_ , giving us the _illusion_ of choice."

"I agree with Christos," says Celosia. "Once the big wigs are finished killing themselves, I don't want the winner gunning for _me_ next because I pulled the lever for the _other_ guy…"

"Word has it Kane's son Archibald might run." says Kaiser suddenly, to the shock of everyone else in the room.

"Where'd you hear that?" asks Paisley.

He waves his smartphone in the air. "I have my sources. _Kane vs DeWynter_...an election between them is _bound_ to go smoothly, I'd imagine."

"I'd vote for him." says Ainsley.

Jasper scoffs. "Do you _honestly_ think they'd let a Kane run for office successfully without ending up like previous one?"

Zenobia eyes the room with a calculating leer before taking a prolonged sip of her wine. " _Fine_ , do what you must. But keep in mind the grand majority of the previous victors were _culled_ twenty-odd years ago because they didn't see the error of their ways."

Again, the room is filled with nothing but silence and hardened gazes. Letting out a soft, self-satisfied mew, I shrug while extinguishing my cigarette. My five years as part of the lucky few is short, but I've been around the upper echelons enough times to know who pulls the levers.

The fun part is knowing that the process won't be as cut and dry as everyone thinks.

* * *

 _ **Senator Archibald Kane, Son to President Agesilaus Kane,**_  
 _ **Capitol City, Panem**_  
 _ **January 5th, 2162**_

* * *

 _"With Senator Kane and Vice President DeWynter leading the polls so tightly, many speculate as to who will come out on top. Concurrently, card-carrying members of the Nationalist Party across the nation vie for the plethora of Federal Council seats dissolved since prior to the Dark Days. Tonight we have erm Senators Spartacus McKnight and Kristoff Haversmith. Gentlemen, could I have your thoughts on this unprecedented event?"_

McKnight straights in his seat, a smug smile spread across his lips. _"A Nationalist Party victory alongside a DeWynter presidency is the only viable choice for a functional Panem. Viondra DeWynter is the only candidate with the vision and prowess to lead the nation. In the case of her opponent…a victory based on sympathy votes would be ill advised."_

Haversmith, a colleague and close friend, is quick to roll his eyes. _"The Nationalists are the same people plagued with the mentality and ways of President Snow. DeWynter will be the same. In order for Panem to function we need to carry on Agesilaus Kane's model of growth."_

 _"Well, many would agree with me in saying that voting for Liberal-Democratic politicians would be the same as letting the rebels into office…as many have heard, many rebels who took up arms against the Capitol are in full support of your party. Is that what you're trying to convey? That people who have plunged this nation into civil war for the second time should have a slice of power?"_

Glancing upward, I smile as Josephina plants a kiss on my forehead.

"Darling, turn that garbage off." She says, settling into the bed. "You already know Viondra has control of the airwaves."

I sigh, complying with my wife as I swivel my feet towards the ground and shut off the holovision. DeWynter is just another female version of _Snow_ and the people are too confused to see it.

"I know darling. I just _hate_ the way they slander Father like that. I want to shut it all out, but it's easier said than done...especially with all that's transpired."

The bastards…You'd think that after twenty years of Coriolanus Snow, a little change would be good. The majority of Panem following the Second Rebellion thought so, as they elected my father back at HG 78. He's done more for this country than any Panemian president since the Dark Days…Things like colleges and expanded education for the districts, roads, improved cities…

 _Ending the Games once the 100th concluded._

I blow out a deep sigh, clutching a portrait of him from off my bedside table. All the progress he made, all the potential – _gone,_ up in the air because _they_ don't want to give up an _inch_ of power. I know they killed him…I _know_ they did. Josephina plants her head on my shoulder, her arms clutching my sides. "He would be proud of you, Archie."

I nod. "I know he would."

He'd want me and his colleagues to continue his legacy of progress and welfare for ALL Panemians. I owe it to him and every hope-loving Panemian who yearns for a better day.

"You have me…the children and Panemians across the nation rooting for you, no matter _what_ happens."

* * *

 _ **Viondra DeWynter, Interim President of Panem**_ _ **,  
District 6  
September 10th, 2162**_

* * *

Part of me wishes we'd just initiated a bloody _coup_ instead.

With a picture perfect smile on my face, I wait as the round of applause and cheers subside. Who knew Six had people that weren't absolutely _inebriated_ out of their minds.

"-And so loyal citizens of District Six, if you pledge your allegiance to Panem's Nationalist Party and elect myself, Governor Milliken and the plethora of councilmembers in this region to the National Assembly this December, District Six shall reap the benefits of a _strong and decisive_ state! Thank you all for your loyalty and support!"

The crowd bursts into applause, my campaign jingle flooding the convention hall as I greet my adoring public. Shake a few hands here, a group photo for the local news there and hugs and kisses with a few rugrats just for good measure.

 _Hello Viondra,  
Well, hello, Viondra  
It's great to have you here where you belong  
_ _You're lookin' swell, Viondra,_ _  
 _We can tell, Viondra_  
 _You're still glowin', you're still crowin',_  
 _You're still going strong!__

 _We hear the band playingand the folks saying: "You're the gal that knows just how to get things done!"_  
 _Soooooo wow-o-wow fellas, look at that gal go now fellas, the whole damn world agrees that she's the one!*_

I finally make it off the convention floor and into the backstage hallway, as soon as my eyes meet those of my Chief of Staff Gideon Montresor, my smile immediately morphs into a deep frown.

"For _Panem's sake_ …I don't know how our ancestors did it." I breathe, accepting a cigarette from a nearby aide. I fasten it into my signature onyx holder and take a much needed drag. "Democracy is a _woefully_ arcane concept…"

Gideon rises from his seat, sporting that knowing smile on his face as he joins my entourage. "It beats a Fourth Rebellion, Viondra. Besides," he taps away at his PDA, "The Nationalist Party is up three points in this district due to the union proposals and urban development pledges."

"We've learned since then. Even if they did throw a tantrum we'd lick them even harder than we did before." I retort.

We cut our conversation short as we disembark the hall and are escorted to the nearby limousine. We both duck our heads as the head of my security detail, Agent Thaddeus Dallaire, gestures us in.

"Things are slightly different now, much more volatile, much more at stake." He replies, settling in. "Remember what I said in November…they've been deprived of the basics for a quarter of a century. A little red meat is all it'll take to sate the horde. Just keep playing your part, and the rest will fall into place."

I wave to the crowd of supporters as the motorcade begins to push off "Right…"

He adjusts his browline glasses, a trademark gesture of his. " _Patience is the Game._ Panem can ill-afford more turmoil. If you pull the plug _now_ -"

"It'll all spiral out of control." I finish his sentence. It's funny…being the de facto president, running an election campaign all while having the entire brunt of Panem's civil service at your fingertip. I know what Archibald Kane and his cabal are planning, the foreigners he illegally speaks to. We all know this election is one big farce.

It all comes down to who knocks the proverbial chessboard from off the table…

* * *

 ***Get Lucky - Flash Mob Jazz:** 'Classical' music is the bee's knees in Panem, especially with a little 'swing' to it. As you'll see now and in the future.

 ***Hello, Lyndon (1964)** : there's a chapter in _'Calamity'_ in which Viondra's chief advisor, Gideon, sifts through pre-Panem elections to better appeal to the people. Sung by a descendant of Frank Sinatra (I have way too much thinking time...) a campaign jingle like this also fits my 'retro-futuristic' aesthetic. Which believe it or not spans from a **_1968 International Harvester Travelall_** seen in the first 'Hunger Games' movie. Did you know in Mockingjay Pt2 the jeep that Peeta is escorted out of is a _**1956 Mercedes-Benz Unimog?**_ As you can see from District 6 on my blog, the cars I envision are from the fifties and sixties in design.

...So maybe my 1950's/60's aesthetic isn't so far-fetched after all ha ha! I base it off of nostalgia and the Capitols yearning for a "placated" population.


	3. Prologue III: Isabella

**A/N:** Another interlude in which the life of Panem's last victor before the Hundreds is detailed. Fun fact, she won an unfinished SYOT and has served as an OC of mine since 2014.

Forgive me if I made a mistake in the tenses...I think this is my first time in which I wrote like this. It'll be the last in regards to this story.

...I have plenty of spots left! Things are going well. I don't have too much or little of anything.

* * *

 _ **Prologue III**_

* * *

On this snowy day, December twenty-first, the year of the Eighty-First Hunger Games in _District Six Receiving Hospital_ another member of the lucky few would be born.

"One more push Mrs. Wilkinson, you're _almost_ there!" A Nurse yearns to a young woman in the final throes of childbirth. The woman in question was a Jaclyn Wilkinson. With her pale dark skin, typical to those afflicted with morphling addiction, a sober passerby would mark her off as just another _statistic_ – _another_ teenage addict who ran off to be with her source.

Jaclyn tiredly nodded to the Nurse. Having used a couple of hours prior to her water breaking, the birth itself was a haze of pain, _pretty colours_ and confusion. But alas with one last push, the nurse was suddenly cradling a miniature being as its wails filled the room.

" _Congratulations_ …It's a _beautiful_ baby girl!"

Jaclyn wasn't all that naïve, she knew her lifestyle whilst with child but carried on anyway. Just as Jaclyn inquired _"Is there anything wrong with her?"_ both her and the Nurse furrow their brows in confusion as the baby spasms, her cries transitioning into a dry heave and her left hand making a crinkling motion before returning to her normal cries once more.

The Doctor in charge exchanged glances with the nurse before wrapping the baby in a cover. "I'm sure that was just a result of overstimulation…It's a possibility that previous abuse of substance _may_ have complications for the baby."

Taking the baby from the Doctor, the Nurse pushed the infant girl into Jaclyn's waiting arms. "You don't need to worry about that right now…How about a _name_ for the little ankle biter?"

Jaclyn glanced at the little being cradled in her arms. The young woman bit back a sob as she glanced at the baby's mocha-coloured skin, deep brown eyes, heart shaped face and jet black tufts on her head. A second spasm from the infant all but confirms Jaclyn's addiction to morphling afflicting her child. Regardless, she was _perfect_. She was probably the only decent thing she's done in her nineteen years of living.

" _Isabella_ sounds nice, or _Izzy_ for short." Jaclyn replies, "I think that was my mother's name." she peered upward toward the slightly older father, Gregory Wilkinson, as he leered from a nearby corner with drink in hand.

"Greg, she's _beautiful_ …don't you wanna see her?" she asks, her voice seeping with hope.

Greg doesn't answer, instead taking a large swig from his bottle. "Hmph…nrrgh, shudda had a fuckin' _abortion_ …'nother mouth ta feed…"

The Nurse frowns. "There are _other_ options. President Kane has revamped the Community Home system a lot recently. Little Izzy would be just fine there if need be."

Jaclyn frowned. The cycle _continues_. There would be no grandma or grandpa to receive Isabella as their grandchild, as _Jaclyn_ _too_ was cast into the system due to neglectful parents. If she were to take Izzy home, the baby would just live in squalor until it was _her_ time to spin the wheel and start the process over again. Jaclyn nuzzled baby Isabella into her chest, ignoring the spasm that overtook the baby once more.

Maybe she could spend a _month or two_ with her, then make up her mind. It'll all work itself out soon.

* * *

Jaclyn's mind would be made up for her.

 _"Clear the sector, seize and destroy all contraband!"_

Peacekeeper Corporal Domita Wilson joined her squad as they dismounted their SJ-7 and rendezvoused with the other units as they began their raid on this derelict factory suspected of being a hub for illicit activity. The scene is best described as chaos, sporadic gunfire echoing through the air as Peacekeepers detained suspected criminals and rushed to and fro gathering and piling evidence onto one giant mound. Domita enjoyed the scenes before her, being a shiny fresh from Two, she was _itching_ to see some action and do her part to ensure a safer tomorrow for all law-abiding Panemians.

Domita made her way deeper into the building, her squad clearing all rooms in one corridor with the exclusion of one.

Her Sergeant clapped her back. "Wilson, cover me. Set it to ' _kill'_ , if they didn't heed the warnings I _doubt_ they'll surrender peacefully."

Domita nods, smiling under her polarized helmet as her rifle shrieked to life at the flick of a knob. With a hefty boot, her Sergeant kicked the door open, setting his sights on a dark skinned man with features of a junky. He fumbles with a revolver, only to take a burst of violet into his chest as he dropped to the floor, hard.

" _GREG_ , _NOOOO_!"

As Domita progressed further into the room, she was taken aback as a woman about _her_ age rushed them with a knife, her face flushed with hysterics. It only takes one shot to send the girl careening against the cupboards, the knife clattering out of reach.

" _Snow's roses_ …" Domita breathed, readying her rifle once more as a wail erupted throughout the room. The Peacekeeper pivoted toward a _crib_ of all things, inside a baby that couldn't be more than a month or two old.

Domita discards her helmet, hissing as she set it aside and slowly scooped the infant up. "Sarge, we got a problem over 'ere!"

The rest of her squad joins her now, their weapons raised only for them to be relaxed as they focus their attention on the bundle in her arms.

"'Isabella 'Izzy' Wilkinson' is her name, apparently." Domita reports while tossing the Sergeant a piece of photo ID.

Her Sergeant also discards his helmet, this being the first time she ever seen his militaristic features soften as he examines the card. Domita cursed under her breath as she gazed at the limp body other mother, her chest still shouldering from the plasma that struck her.

"Well shit… _It happens_ , Corporal. It's a shame how some people can be so _damn_ selfish sometimes…I'll entrust her in your care until we finish up here. Maybe a community home will take her in."

Upon hearing this, Domita adjusted her position to further make the baby comfortable. It wasn't _her_ fault, it was the kids _fuckin' parents'_ fault for not heeding their orders! _Whatever_ …being orphaned beats squalor, tessarae jockeying and _continuing_ the cycle of poverty.

Domita takes one last look at the baby in her arms…The squirt _does_ have a distinct look about her, and she'll be deployed here for the time being…

* * *

Isabella Wilkinson, or ' _Izzy'_ to those who cared enough to use it, was a joyful spirit in a district filled to the brim with dreary faces and little time for leisure. Where conforming to a certain mold was commonplace for many in Six, Izzy sure did stick out like a _diamond_ amongst coal.

But you know what they say… _misery loves company._ And time and time again, misery would attempt to swallow young Izzy whole.

"Hey _Izziot_ , I'm talkin ta ya!"

Izzy tried to ignore the accosting heckles of Sadie McDermott and her gaggle of idiot friends, only to earn clod of snow to the back of her head. For you see, the doctor's were _right_ about their diagnosis seventeen years ago. Afflicted with involuntary spasms and uttering of words both vanilla _and_ uncouth, oddballs like Izzy don't mix well with the uneducated population at large.

Izzy is nearly on the verge of tears when she babbles " _Sadie_ …could you _*diddly doe, woop!*_ cut it out?!"

Aisha Farooq juts her finger towards the downed Isabella. "Look there she goes again!"

"What a fuckin' whacko!" jeers another.

As they all howl with laughter like hyena mutts, Sadie takes a step forward, leering over Isabella like a Career Tribute does their final kill. " _Whackos_ don't have a chance with Dodge Chambers, so _don't talk to him again_ or else you'll get something worse than a snowball thrown at you, _Izziot_."

"…Are you uttering a _threat_ , girlie?" an authoritive voice booms. All girls crane their heads to a female Peacekeeper, her stun baton brandished as she casually approached them. "That'll run you about ten lashes alone, plus _another ten_ for that snowball you chucked."

Izzy watches as Sadie and her gang quickly double back. "N-no ma'am, we were just playin, is all."

"Right," the Peacekeeper scoffs. "Do me a favor and take a hike before I whip your asses black and blue."

As Sadie and her friends heed the Peacekeepers advice, the girl in white unfastens her helmet with a hiss, prompting Izzy to smile weakly.

"Why are you always so nice to me Sergeant _*OH NO, PEACEKILLER, WEE WOO WEE WOO!*_ Wilson?"

It's true. It's so weird, ever since Izzy was in kindergarten she would always recall Wilson giving her pocket change, candy and the like. Like a shadow, Wilson was always around when Izzy needed her. Then again, Izzy _did_ have a knack for garnering both negative and positive attention…Maybe Wilson felt sorry for her.

"Heh heh, is that what you really think of us? I kid. _Potential and resilience_ kid," Domita Wilson says as she pulls a disheveled Isabella from off the snow-covered ground, "And you got _lots of it_. You gotta stop letting people walk all over you like that, Wilkinson."

"I guess…"

"Do you have any friends at school, kid?"

Izzy could only shrug. She had a couple of acquaintances here and there, but they always kept their distance. When push came to shove, they'd probably leave her in the dirt.

Domita gives the younger girl a look over. Izzy was lean and tall, more ample than the girls she observes whilst patrolling. "Have you thought about joining a sports team?"

"I don't think they'd like me very much." Izzy says, glowering. The frown instantly turns upside down as Domita places a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm the truant officer for your school, remember? My higher ups say something about Peacekeepers needing to ' _engage positively with the community_ ' more… So, they're gonna _have to_ like it." She says, "I'll speak to the P.E department first thing Monday."

…

Domita was true to her word. After some persuasive yearning, the schools Phys. ED department was quick to take Isabella under their wing for the coming spring. She took instantly to track and field, excelling at relay, long jumping and the like. And by the time President Kane was shot in the fall, Isabella was on the dart and hockey team. On non-practice days, Sergeant Wilson would serve as a work-out buddy, teaching Izzy things relevant and 'i _rrelevant'_ – but _much appreciated._

Sure, things were still difficult outside sporting hours, but they were much better than her junior years. Her dexterity would come to serve her well for the events that transpire next year.

* * *

Koller Ascort was so _freakin'_ tired.

Like every other year their eccentric escort, Flo Shakespeare, drags himself and his partner Silvia up the steps of Sixes Hall of Justice and dumps them onto their chairs while the children begin to congregate for the reaping of the Ninety-Ninth Hunger Games.

Acacia, Koller's twelve-year-old district partner who no one else seems to acknowledge, takes her seat beside the morphling-addicted victor. Dressed in her arena uniform, Acacia hums a tune before turning towards Koller.

"I have a good feeling about today, Koller! Ninety-Nine might be our _lucky_ year!"

"I _doubt_ that." Koller scoffed. He never felt _good_ about Sixes chances since Orville Mullen back in HG 95. The tributes that followed never made it as far as that kid did…

Silvia turns to him, lowering her cat eye sunglasses. "Whaddya say, Ascort?"

Koller waves her off. "Nothin', I was talkin' ta Acacia…"

Silvia's face scrounges with confusion, glancing to her left and right before frowning. "Acacia _died_ , remember?"

"What are ya talkin' about?" he grumbles in reply, nodding off to the empty seat beside her. "She's right there…"

Confused, Silvia cranes her head to the left and right before shrugging. " _Hmph_ …I wish I had hits as good as _yours_."

Koller ignored her. He just wanted this _Snowforsaken_ reaping to end so he could give his meager advice, see the tributes off and watch them get _killed_ in the bloodbath.

Thankfully, his staring into space lasted long enough to see Flo stepping up to the level that would start up the reaping randomizer. The jumboscreen spun and spun throughout the myriad of female faces before settling on a dark skinned girl with bushy hair and a goofy smile.

"And the female tribute for District Six is Isabella Wilkinson!" Flo declares, watching as the group of eighteens slowly makes way for the girl in question. Twitching every now and then, Isabella glares throughout the square at the eyes that watch her.

"Oh…She chose me * _nur nur nur_ *?!" Isabella cries, pointing to herself as a girl nearby nods. "Okay! I'm on my * _don't tic, don't tic, don't tic_ * way, hehe…* _shit_ *!"

Caressing his temples, Koller watches as she does just that. He doesn't know what to make of the girl as of yet. Dressed in denim shorts and a wool sweater, the curly-headed girl whose hair best resembled an overgrown plant made her way towards the stage – twitching and whistling all the way.

"* _Woo, woo, woo!*_ Keep it together Izzy! * _What the_ ** _fuck_** _are you all looking at?!_ _nur_!*"

Koller, Flo, Slyvia the Governor, Peacekeepers…they all watch the girl with perplexity on their faces as Isabella took to the stage. Beaming as if she hadn't uttered a word, she juts her hand towards the escort.

"Hiya Flo * _woo!_ * the name's Izzy, pleasure to * _ugly slut!_ * make your acquaintance…hehe."

By now the entire square was laughing their asses off. And with the addition of a morphling addicted fifteen year old boy who was as skinny as a stick, Koller was already counting the days he could return back to his penthouse and shut out the world once more.

* * *

 _"District Five's Marcus Joule with a score of…5"_

Koller leaned in as District Sixes scores were on the horizon. It was these scores that would decide if he and Silvia would check out completely. Izzy's gaffe during the reaping allowed her some acclaim during the reaping process and opening ceremony, but the scores are _do or die_. He _doubted_ she'd meet the threshold potential sponsors have-

 _"District Six's Isabella Wilkinson with a score of 8! Isabella seems to be full of surprises, eh Chad?"_

The cheers that surround him nearly rupture his ear drum. He turns to Izzy now, her face as red as a beet as Flo grips her in a hug and jostles her around as her stylists do the same.

The boy, Axel, gets a _three_. When Koller first started mentoring, the other lower-district victors strongly advised him to let the Games run its course with tributes like Axel.

Koller cranes his head towards the kitchen where Acacia rifles through the pantry, munching on a bag of chips. "See? What'd I tell ya?!"

"What'd you do?" he asks her, just as Flo finished prepping her for her interview on _Late Night With Marceline Devereaux._ Sponsors have been coming in for Izzy significantly and polling suggests that the viewers are looking forward to hearing from _her_ the most.

"I dunno, swung swords and fought trainers…I just followed the instructors like Flo told me too." Izzy shrugs. "If you and Silvia weren't so high all the time… _*such a morphfiend, WINO WINO!*_ maybe you'd know. _Oop, sorry_!"

Koller said nothing, only watching as Isabella was escorted to the elevator by their Escort and Stylists.

…

Maybe he should lay off the drugs more often.

Koller watched as Isabella took the stage to fervent applause. Waving to the audience, Isabella smiles from ear to ear, the audience exploding from laughter as one of Izzy's spasms prompts her to _flip the bird_ to the nation at large. Marceline offers a warm smile, taking her hand and guiding her to the chair in front of her desk.

"Hey Izzy, are you ready for tomorrow?"

Isabella's face morphs from a smile into a grimace, her eye twitching as she bleats "*I don't wanna die _– DON'T WANNA DIE_!*"

Marceline leads the crowd with a lighthearted chuckle, reassuring the eighteen year old with a light caress of the hand.

"So Izzy…" begins Marceline, a genuine smile on her face as the crowd settles down, "Tell us about your 'spasms'. I imagine you're quite the hoot back in Six, huh?"

"Ehh…not really…I * _clowns, clowns, you all look like CLOWNS!_ *"

The audience gasps, only to break out into soft laughter. Isabella flushes beet red while letting out a soft giggle.

Marceline chuckles while reaching out and placing a hand on Izzy's shoulder. "I'd rather be a clown than an _'ugly slut'_ that's for sure. Am I right Flo?"

Even more simpering from the crowd as our Escort stands up and waves. The crowd would watch on, awwh-ing and laughing as Izzy explained her life story.

At the end of it all, Marceline reclines in her chair. "You're _very resilient,_ Izzy. A lot of people who face the trials you have would've given up long time ago. If you ask me, the Games are just one more tunnel you need to see yourself out of. You think you got what it takes?"

A coy smirk spreads across Izzy's lips. "I've made it this far * _woop, woop!*,_ I'd like to think so."

"With that 8 in training, I don't see why not either." Taking Isabella by the hand, Marceline guides her to the centre stage, presenting her to Panem at large.

"Give it up for Izzy Wilkinson, everyone!"

* * *

Five days into the Games, Isabella would finally face the heat.

Koller watched from the Games Headquarters as Izzy made her way back to her camp. It's been five days since Koller used or drank. He _craves_ cheap booze or a syringe but he holds on for Izzy. Even _Silvia_ dried herself out a little to help keep tabs on their lone tribute. Axel was killed on the first day, it couldn't be helped.

Izzy managed to shack up with the pair from District 3 and the male from 10. Unfortunately Ten saw her and the Threes as a stepping stone, as Izzy would find out as she returns to their campsite to find both their supplies _taken_ and both Threes _stabbed_ to death…well, the female still clung on to life.

"Petra… _what happened_?" Isabella cooed, coddling the dying Three as she began to drift away.

Petra clasped Izzy's jacket as she leaned toward her ear and breathed "…Ten…" as her head lolled backwards and her cannon fired.

Downtrodden, cold, alone and her head hung low, Isabella spent the rest of the day roaming the city ruins that was her arena. Silvia and Koller debated sending her more supplies, but what she had was ample enough. That is…until the muttation attack. An irradiated stag, its pelt in clumps and its flesh a sickly green, smashed through a department store window and made a beeline toward a startled Isabella. Five throwing knives to the body weren't enough to deter the mutt as it gored and trampled her. Her side pierced and a couple of bruises here and there, it was nothing a little healing salve wouldn't fix.

When it came to the morning of the sixth day, Koller and Silvia doubted the salve would matter in the end.

Annabelle Starling nods to the widescreen. "It's _curtains_ for yer girl, Ascort…too bad so sad, she was _kinda_ amusin'."

Both Six mentors could only watch in horror as the male Tribute from Ten backed Izzy into a corner. They'd sponsor her something, _anything,_ but their efforts would be futile. All they could do is wait and see.

"Look who it is…the retard girl from Six who has spaz attacks!" the Boy jeers, giving his sword a twirl. "Don'tcha worry your slow little head, just one little swipe and it'll be all over soo-"

They barely saw the brick collide with his face, his blood expelling outward as the block crushes his nose. Dazed, Ten barely dodges a steel rod to the temple as Izzy is on him instantly. Ten is taken aback by Izzy's ferocity while parrying each blow sent his way. As her rod connects with his sword for the fifth time, his blade is cast aside. His head turns slightly as he watches the sword tumble away, only for Izzy to plunge her rod into his thigh. The boy's shout of pain is stifled as Izzy's knee collides with his jaw. Removing the rod, Ten futilely raises his hands into the air, crying out as Izzy bashes his skull in once, twice, three times, four times, _five_ times only stopping once his cannon rings out.

Annabelle Starling could only let out an airy scoff, shutting down her sponsor station before taking the elevator out in silence.

Koller rises to his feet, exchanging glances with an equally perplexed Silvia as notifications lit up their communicuffs – _sponsor money_ no doubt. When was the last time they ever got sponsor money? At least four years? Is _this_ what happens when he stops _drinking and injecting_ himself into a stupor and actually _focuses_ on his tributes? If so, he could get used to it.

Silvia must feel the same way as she flashes him a smile, the first genuine _non-inebriated_ smile he's seen in a while. "Nine more tributes left."

"Well? Let's keep at it then."

The two sponsor her a sickle, the weapon she apparently showed proficiency with during training.

* * *

Days later, with all tributes killed except Izzy, an Eight female and Two Male, the Gamemakers summon an earthquake, its shockwaves leveling buildings and blocks as the finalists are herded back towards the cornucopia. Izzy's track and field paid off, as she and the girl from Eight were the first to make it to the silver horn. The two exchange a nod, unaware of the Two boy prowling towards them. He makes his presence known by planting his machete into the back of Eight's head.

"Heh, what a surprise to see you here, Six." Two greets, kicking Eight's corpse off the horn as her cannon rings out.

"I'm kinda shocked too. But _*holy shit, HOLY SHIT, CAREER, CAREER!*_ here I am, heh heh."

Two furrows his brow in confusion, only to shake his head as he disregards Izzy's outburst. "Listen…I'm got a mansion back home to get back to. So let's make this quick, shall we?"

Izzy simply shrugs, letting out a shriek whilst charging the Career. By this point in the Games, Izzy was down _nine_ points in the popularity polls to this Two boy and all around himself and Silvia, the spectators cheered Izzy and Two's name as the finalists engage in ferocious combat, sparks flying, grunts and their screams ringing throughout the arena while they clashed on top of the horn.

As he goes for another swing, Izzy's sickle catches Two's sword inside the curve of the blade, but Two manages to maneuver his blade across Izzy's already wounded side. She lets out a cry of agony, scrambling backward as the hulking Two boy stalks toward her.

His heart sinking to the pit of his stomach, Koller fails to ignore the cackles of Two's Zenobia Rivendell as she gulps down a glass of drink.

"Sorry Ascort, unfortunately, _spastics_ don't _win_ Hunger Games. After my boy finishes up I promise I'll buy _all_ the morph you desire!"

Koller stared longingly at the fatigued body of Isabella as Two continued to stumble towards her. "C'mon Izzy…get up. _Get up!"_

With a smirk on his lips, Two raises his sword for the final blow. Dropping himself onto the stool behind him, Koller immediately shoots upward as the cameras focus on Isabella's renewed grip around her sickle.

The spectators around him gasp as Izzy severs Two's leg. The boy lets out a howl, falling hard onto the horn as his blood paints the steel crimson.

Koller, Silvia and their backers howl with glee as the victors of Two are now the ones on the hot seat. " _WHAT_?!"

"C'mon IZZY!"

Two, with his years of combat training doesn't give up, pouncing on Izzy as the two roll to and fro on the top of the cornucopia. One final rock sends them tumbling over onto the concrete floor. With his hands grasped around her neck and her hands clutching his, the Six Female attempts to buck the bigger Two boy off, to no avail. Two retrieves a brick, slamming it twice into Izzy's temple as he continues to choke the life out of her.

The resilient diamond that she is, Izzy continued to scan the immediate area around her with a lone hand until her efforts yielded a lone _dagger –_ a leftover from the initial bloodbath. She juts the blade upward into his jaw, reversing the tables completely as _she_ mounts him now. Losing blood profusely from two places now, Two could only grip Izzy's jacket collar as she pierces him over and over and over and over and over again…until finally, Two's cannon rings out throughout the arena.

The opening stanza for the national anthem plays, fireworks are let off and trumpets blare as Koller and Silvia exchange looks of absolute disbelief.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you Isabella Wilkinson – Victor of the Ninety-Ninth HUNGER GAMES!"

The two Six mentors are on each other instantly, clutching one another as the hall erupts with cheers and chants of Izzy's name. Ninety-nine years of Hunger Games produced many types of victors and as much as Koller _despised_ these Games, Isabella Wilkinson is a fitting victor to end of the century.

Back in the arena however, Izzy, bathed in the blood of her opponent, stands to her feet and listens to the cheers that ring out through the arena. She couldn't believe her shock. The 'whacko' the 'nut job', the 'local nutcase' from District 6 won the Games.

Izzy shields her eyes as the hovercraft prepares its tractor beam. "I…I did it. I actually _did it_."

* * *

A couple of miles north, in District 6, Peacekeeper Sergeant First Class Domita Wilson is the only one in her barracks with a smile on their face as her comrades lament the loss of the Two boy.

She raises her bottle to the screen before her and takes a swig.


	4. Prologue IV: Snuffed Hope

**A/N:** Yo, author in the making!

Do you think one is never enough? Want to 'even up the odds' so to speak? Well now you can! If you're up for it, you may submit one more tribute if you have the time. In terms of this story beginning, I believe there is one more interlude to be had until I address you guys pertaining to the format of this story.

In terms of this chapter, also a shoot off from a chapter in " _Calamity_ " - _ **"Can't say I didn't try"**_

* * *

 _ **Prologue IV: Snuffed Hope**_

* * *

 **Everett Danton, 19,**  
 **Victor of the 98th Hunger Games**

 **Snow Island**

 **December 21st, 2162 (HG 99)**

* * *

If District 1 and 2 are the Capitol's lapdogs, then Snow Island must be their _coveted heir._

Slipping on a pair of wayfarers I glance around, taking in the marvel that was Snow Island's Victor's Village. Located on a promontory that offered a panoramic view of the towns and sea below, the fountain -garnished curl-de-sac currently housed three finished 'mansions'…not really mansions but intricate ' _bungalows'_ fitted with wide floor-to-ceiling panel glass, slanted roofs and pastel colours. It's as if those on the outside could _'look into'_ the lives of the occupants.

Looking at it all, a guy can't help but feel a flash of jealousy at the effort the Capitol put into this place.

As if she could read me, I feel Celosia's cybernetic arm curl drape over my shoulders. "The perks of being the _Capitol's playground eh..?"_

I crane my head towards her. "And you say you guys do this _every_ year?" Having won the Games a year ago, I preferred the comfort of home for the holidays, I would've declined again but Celosia insisted I come along this time…and besides, who would decline a trip to _Snow Island?_ A tradition since the 80th Hunger Games, apparently a vote is held regarding who and where they get together will be hosted. Due to today's election, the majority of us agreed that we should be _far away_ from the potential aftermath. Even though most victors remained anonymous about their support, even _not_ voicing an opinion on the two candidates meant a potential death sentence.

So, here we are, Celosia leading the way to the bungalow situated in the middle of the cul-de-sac – _Rafaela's house._ Behind us, tourists and journalists alike continue to profess their love and hurl their questions toward us. Celosia makes an approving remark pertaining to Rafaela's teal convertible as we bound the steps and ring the doorbell.

Abrasive, forthright, the type of person to laugh off a heated argument, _Rafaela Novia_ holds back from no one…except _me_ of course. Being the older brother of her ally during her Games might have something to do that.

I let out a soft sigh, watching from the corner of my eye as a figure makes their way from the living room to the door. Landry and Rafaela were a good pair…and when Rafaela ended up winning, Mom and Pop were satisfied, but _it still didn't_ stem the pain. On Landry's behest, we made an attempt to move on, vowing not to be destroyed by her passing. Even though they nearly lost me three years later only for me to defy the odds and return to them, we still anticipate Landry walking through the door with a day's worth of gossip to share. I wish she were here, but _Rafaela_ makes up for that void.

As soon as the door swings open, I'm greeted with a hug that would be uncharacteristic for anyone else receiving it. "Hello _Everett_ , Celosia…" Rafaela coos, adjusting her glasses with a warm smile on her lips. "Glad you could tag along."

I offer a coy smile in return. "Hey Raf…"

"What better place to watch the country go to _hell_ , eh?" Replies Celosia. In typical fashion, Francisco Noriega peers over Rafaela's shoulder, his devious personality shining through as per usual.

"Heeeeeeey _que hay chicos_ , the Seven's are here!" he greets, eyeing the paper bag Celosia currently holds. "And I see you brought _hard apple cider?_ If you don't mind… I'll just _take that_ off your hands-" Celosia is quick to press her finger against Francisco's chest, halting him. "Up _bup, bup_! How about you help us bring in the pine tree we brought ya, _and then_ you can have some hard cider?"

* * *

Piper glances up from the spinner in her hand, grinning from ear to ear as she spectates the ridiculous scene before her. "Left leg red, Everett!"

I let out groan of frustration, taking in the tangled mass of flesh that was me and District Three's Gwendolyn Faraday. "You're _serious_?"

Below me, Gwen lets out a strained "Y-y-you ready to l-l-lose, Everett?"

" _Stow it_ , Gwen. All I need to do is..." grunting while I slowly inch my leg towards the nearest red circle on the playing mat, my body ends up checking out completely from the strain as Gwen and I fall flat onto the floor with an audible _'oof!'._ Gwen, for the first time since I've _ever_ seen her on TV or real life, lets out a lighthearted _giggle_.

"I guess I'm t-the _winner_!" the Three Victor shrugs.

"Yeah yeah, _whatever_ Gwen, did you _see_ the angle I was in?" I say, my attention drifting elsewhere as I took in the scenes around me.

It's an _interesting_ sight to see alright…Drinks are flowing and dishes from all twelve districts are to be had as all of Panem's victors gather under one roof. As Joyceta, Zinnia and Ainsely decorate the tree Celosia and I bought, the elder victors either gather around old Berglind Jonsdottir as she gives the piano a play or talk politics by the couch. Celosia, Annabelle, Jasper and Severa drown themselves with shots while in typical fashion, Rafaela, Silvia, Koller and Milani Barassi twist the evening away in drunken bliss to a Capitol pop song.

I finally turn my attention to the newest member of the lucky few, Izzy Wilkinson, who quietly watched our game with a meek smile on her lips.

"So... _Izzy_ ," I purr as I slowly crawl toward her. "How does it feel to be a part of the _lucky few?_ "

Humming in thought, the Ninety-Ninth Victor glances around the room before offering a pearly-white smile. "It's _funny_ …" she replies, "You'd think that everyone hated each other…yet here you are, _together_."

I nod in agreement. It was almost as if this were _one big_ family reunion. Even though I've only been a part of this coveted club for a year or two, I could see why at the end of the day, each victor would be well acquainted with one another. We're all cut from the same cloth after all, experiencing something that so few could ever talk about.

The divides… _Career_ versus _underdog_ , _loyalists_ versus _idealists_ , would rear its head once more upon the tune of the PBC's opening sequence.

"Hey guys, it's starting!" Glisten calls, as the shuffling of feet and chairs resound through the house. It takes less than a minute for everyone to assemble in front of the holovision as Chad Blakely's beaming face appears on screen.

"Well," says Jason Christos of District Two. "Tonight's the night in which we either see Panem elevate itself or plummet into _darkness_."

Clarence loosens his necktie. "You're _kidding_ right? Do you actually think they'd let Kane win?"

"If the dead minds in higher places want to avoid a third rebellion within the span of a _hundred years,_ yeah."

"Thankfully the Capitol came down hard on former rebels and dissidents. I couldn't even _tell you_ how many people I saw the Peacekeepers turn down at my precinct last week. "

"Turn down people? _Heh_ , at least they didn't _burn down_ a community hall in your district." Snorts Koller. "Thousands of votes, turned to _ashes_."

So District 11 and _others_ also prevented former rebels and dissidents from voting...I too recall watching as Peacekeepers and scrutineers ridiculed and turned away people accused of fighting for the rebellion twenty-odd years ago.

Zinnia and Paisely pay no attention to Clarence's pro-Capitol leanings, even though the cringe is evident on their faces as Jason says "You'd think that being an _Eleven_ , you'd want _change_ for your people…"

"If my ' _people'_ wanted _change_ , they'd make the necessary effort." Clarence retorts. "Hopefully with a _DeWynter victory_ , they'll see what in-tandem _cooperation_ with the Capitol could bring."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Annabelle grumbles, shushing the both of them. "Shut yer holes and listen to the man on the HV!"

 _"Good Evening Panem! It is Tuesday December 21st. Welcome to Election Day, 2162 – the first Panem-wide federal election since prior to the Dark Days, I'm Chad Blakely reporting to you in the PBC's election headquarters. Now, if all of you at home could just pay attention to the following image…"_

We watch in silence as a map of Panem appears on screen. Within each district are a series of smaller pieces of land that vary in size.

" _Just like Districtorial elections, a federal election consists of that for federal council seats and the presidency at-large. In total, Panem's federal council has 376 seats – 186 needed for a majority. In terms of the presidency, whoever between Archibald Kane and Viondra DeWynter has the most direct votes from all the precincts wins. Hang onto your seats ladies and gentlemen as we start in Eastern Panem with plenty of returns coming in."_

And so, we do hang onto our seats, watching silently as the eastern part of the nation turned maroon for the "National Party" or blue for the "Liberal-Democratic Party". No one is surprised when District 12's small pool of precincts turns majority blue, save for one red precinct in the middle of the district – _'Twelve – Centre'_ is its name.

"Of course the Town portion would vote maroon," Explains Ainsely, "But for the rest of us, I like to see it as our little way of _getting back_."

The rest of Eastern Panem is a mixture of maroon and blue, according to the victors of those districts, the vote for Kane or DeWynter was divided on 'class' lines such as big city voters versus working town voters – the administrators against those 'on the ground' meeting those quotas. DeWynter is currently in the lead with a million or so votes. Kane trails with nine-hundred thousand or so votes.

As she continues to play with my hair, Milani Barassi inches toward my ear. The alcohol on her breath is heavy when she says "Whaddya think of all this, Danton? If you ask me, I could care _less_. As long as the pension keeps flowing..."

All I could do is shrug. "I dunno Milani. All we can do is let the chips fall where they may."

I didn't really want fate to run its course, not with what this 'election' means for the nation at-large. _Of course_ I hate the _friggin Games_ , they took Landry away from us. I'll _never forget_ the _hours upon hours_ of wailing my mother did as she watched Landry slowly drift away on screen. I'll _never forget_ my reaping a year or two later, and the levels I had to stoop to in order to get out. President Kane was a good man, _Snow_ …my parents still keep his portrait in our tavern out of reverence for the man. If his son won, that'd be a dream come true for _millions_.

On the other hand…Unlike many of my fellow outliers, I know when some things are just simply _out of reach._ DeWynter was just saying what she needed to retain her presidency and do people really think President Kane's assassination was just one of inconvenience? Would _they_ really let another Kane into office? Not without a fight they wouldn't.

My musings are seemingly answered when Chad Blakely presses a hand towards his earpiece. His jowls and direct expression falters as he slowly nods his head whilst receiving the information. Francisco points toward the screen and remarks about the armed Peacekeepers roaming the set.

 _"Erm…I think we have some breaking news coming to us now. There appears to be a rash of 'armed insurgencies' throughout the Capitol City Region. These insurgencies apparently include sporadic gunfire and potential hostage situations…Government officials including Viondra DeWynter, her daughter and manor staff! The Kane Campaign isn't available for comment, and haven't for the past couple of hours… uh…we do however, have footage pertaining to these developments. Viewer discretion is advised of course."_

The scenes are shocking to say the least. All of us watch as Peacekeepers exchange fire with assailants, government agents rushing important Capitolite into limousines, Peacekeepers as they prepare to storm Viondra DeWynter's mansion to extract her, the streets bathed in red and blue lights as Peacekeepers rush to affected areas.

Rafaela's house breaks into exclamations of surprise and confusion as _Archibald Kane_ marches up the steps of the Presidential Mansion as if he owns the place.

"I told you this shit wasn't gonna be a walk in the park…" mutters Celosia.

Abigail Jackson takes a sip of tea. " _'Clean and fair competition'_ was never in the Capitol's M.O…"

Kaiser waves them off. " _Shhh_ , Blakely's saying something…"

 _"-And um…now it appears that presidential candidate Archibald Kane has made his way into the Presidential Mansion, I-I-I-I…Hello?! I'm losing the feed here-"_

The screen becomes grainy, only to cut to a stoic Archibald Kane, sitting in the presidential office.

 _"Greetings, citizens of Panem. I'm very sorry to have scared you with the scenes you've witnessed thus far, but I assure you this violence is necessary if we are to see everlasting change. Do you honestly think that Viondra DeWynter, daughter to a senior minister of President Snow's cabinet would treat YOU fairly? Do you HONESTLY think my father was killed in an unfortunate 'accident'!? Viondra DeWynter and her cohorts are STRINGING YOU ALONG! My father before he was killed set out to change this nation for the better, reversing the perversion that people like Viondra DeWynter have promulgated. If the Snow's, the DeWynter's and the big wigs of this world have to die to reverse this, then so be it- "_

Kane turns his attention off screen as loud explosion is heard off camera, followed by gunfire. He turns his attention back to the camera, his stoic demeanor now flushed with panic.

 _"Listen to me, do not believe a word these people say," he pleads, bracing himself as the footsteps become closer. "For PANEM'S SAKE, think for YOURSELVES!"_

There's a struggle as the slain president's son is yanked off screen, only for the camera to cut back to a perplexed Chad Blakely.

Silvia Starr furrows her brows in confusion. "What the _fuck_ was that!?"

"A _Capitol idea_ on DeWynter's behalf," Replies Berglind while jutting a bony finger toward the screen. On screen is Viondra DeWynter of course, standing on the steps of her home as the cameras rush toward her. She looks worse for wear, her temple bloodied and lip swollen as she cradles her daughter, shielding her from the snowfall.

"Ms. DeWynter, are you alright?!" asks a Reporter.

" _Thank the Gods_ we are," the President replies, her voice filled with faux sorrow. "I was just seeing my daughter off to bed when men posing as my security detail _held me_ hostage!"

Zinnia Parsons shares the same incredulous look that the majority of the room has on their faces. "This _has_ to be a set up of some sort,"

"Kane set _himself_ up." Snorts Zenobia. " _Sure_ , Capitols don't play fair, but it all came down to who could hold it in _the most_. Kane, knowing that there was potential for DeWynter to strike if she lost, blinked first and DeWynter, knowing that Kane would _try something_ had the Peacekeepers on standby."

"Look at Kane's speech, surely the people would believe him?" reasons Ainsely.

"Believe the ramblings of an erratic man when the election is halfway through? Look at DeWynter; she's done what she's set out to do, make Kane seem like unwieldy figure chasing _shadows_. His attempt to hold the Capitol hostage is the _icing_ on the _cake_. Do you _really_ equate a mother cradling her child as some sort of _diabolical mastermind?"_

Barring the holovision, only silence as we each exchanged terse glances with one another.

"My thoughts _exactly_." Zenobia quips. "This is _us_ , this is _Panem_. The sooner you guys get used to it, the better things will be for yourselves and your respective districts."

"Heh heh… _Fuck_ that," Annabelle snorts. "Who knows what type of shit they'll pull once the quell announcement rolls around."

Koller waves his hand in rapid dismissal. "Don't _Jinx_ it, Starling…"

Letting out a sigh I didn't know I held, I glance around the room and take in just how _stark_ the difference of opinion was. The Outliers, minus _Clarence_ of course, are obviously upset as Paisley consoles a weeping Zinnia. They've checked out completely. Some just _don't seem to care_ , such as Cessna Embraer as she continues to file her _nails_ of all things and Milani who joins Annabelle at the drinks table. The other Careers of course continue to watch the scenes with interest.

Most noticeably, however, is Rafaela's expression. Although her eyes are covered by shades, her smirk is as clear on her face as day. She _did_ say DeWynter would come out on top…as did Kaiser and Zenobia. To them, today is like _any other day_. But for people outside the upper-districts, the danger can't be more clear and present than it is now. I _want to be upset_ , I _want_ to stand up and take action…but we all know what happened twenty-five years prior and the _results_ of said actions.

Reclining back into the sectional, all I could do is watch as the electoral map turned redder and redder the more west we got, and DeWynter's lead over Kane growing larger and larger by the minute.


	5. Prologue V: This it it, This is us,

**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games  
Prologue IV: This is it, This is us, This is Panem.**

* * *

 **Celosia Vale, 36**  
 **Victor of the 81st Hunger Games**  
January 20th, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

If you ask me, _presidential inaugurations_ were just like any other party within the Capitol, notched up to the _nth_ degree. The history buff in me viewed a few vintage holotapes showcasing what an inauguration of Panem's earlier presidents would detail. They used to be so full of hope and optimism, especially when the nation was founded more than a century ago.

Inaugurations right before and immediately following the Dark Days, for the most part, followed the same formula as this one – parades through the streets of the Capitol, followed by an extravagant ballroom filled with dishes from all the districts and hours of entertainment that varied. A-list officials and celebrities – fellow Victors, Master of Ceremonies Marceline Devereaux…Head Gamemaker Pearlana Singh and the like hobnob about with flutes of drink in hand as they enjoyed the festivities. To those who watch at home, Chad Blakely and other media personalities broadcast the entire affair on platforms – inviting guests up every now and then for interviews.

Apparently this is one of the _five_ inaugural balls currently going on within the city. All that talk about recognizing the discrepancy between here and the rest of Panem seems to be nothing but fluff.

As for _myself_ I remain seated at the bar, not much in the mood anymore for schmoozing and enduring gropes from handsy admirers. Nearby, the victors from One and Two _already_ buzzed from drink can-can with fans, mimicking the ensemble on the front stage currently performing.

While everyone else seems enamored with the pomp and glitz of the day, I can't help but wrack my brain over the concurrent _reading of the card_ and what it meant for _us._

 _Matilda DeWynter, the President's five-year-old daughter, blushes from the cheers she receives as she presents the wooden box to her mother, who kisses her forehead. With a gloved finger, President DeWynter opens it and unravels the card. The woman's face flushes with shock, only to morph into a vain smile as she proclaims:_

 _"On the one-hundredth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that all members of society had a role to play in the uprising against the Capitol, the reaping pool has now been expanded. Citizens between the ages of nineteen to sixty-five are now eligible."_

There _has_ to be a _reason_. Why that twist, given the year Panem has had…?

My thoughts are cut off as the national anthem begins to play. Rising to my feet, we slowly begin to congregate to the stage. "Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting the President of Panem, Viondra Celine DeWynter, accompanied by former president Antonius Rose!"

Basking in the adoration of her underlings, President DeWynter takes the stage with her partner in hand in a blue evening gown and fur stole.

"And to serenade our First Couple as they perform their first dance…Benedict Sinatra and Doris McKenzie performing _I only Have Eyes For You!"_

Following the ' _election'_ last month, the attacks in the Capitol didn't just _stay_ in the Capitol. According to Gwendolyn Faraday, the government decided to settle scores with their enemies nationwide. Back in Seven, a day wouldn't pass without Peacekeepers raiding an establishment, or neighbors checking up on neighbors only to realize they and their families were long gone, _dragged off_ into the night. With Archibald Kane, the majority of his allies and family 'exiled' from Panem, DeWynter has _won_. With citizens falling in line and rebels from the Mockingjay War dead, jailed or ostracized, there were _no more_ threats. _Snow_ …DeWynter was brazen enough to do away with the old flag and usher in a _'Fourth Republic'_.

So there has to be a _reason._ Why _this_ twist over the others? In this entire city, there's only _one man_ I can trust to give it to me straight. _And speak of the devil_ , here he was now, tapping me on the shoulder as he cleared his throat.

"Ah… _Mr. Prime Minister_ , how are you this evening?" I inquire while copying that signature, knowing smile of his.

Gideon Montresor offers his hand. A man not overly indulgent in his native Capitol fashion, Gideon wears a red and tuxedo with very trendy oversized black lapels. "Ms. Vale, would you care to dance?"

"Does this ' _dance'_ have _more_ connotations?" I reply cheekily, pointing to Doris as she crooned in her liquid gold voice:

" _My love must be a kind of blind love  
I can't see anyone but you."_

He chuckles. " _Surely_ not. You're akin to the daughter I never had…I don't plan on changing that _anytime_ soon."

"Your colleagues should take a few pages from you then." I say, my cybernetic prosthetic contrasting with his flesh as I clasp my hand in his. "I would _love_ to dance, Mr. Prime Minister."

Gideon Montresor is an overall _unassuming_ man at first glance. Looking at him, a graying ginger with browline glasses and groomed beard and slicked hair for the occasion, you wouldn't imagine that _he_ was pivotal to the stunting of the Rebel's momentum thus winning the war for the Capitol and Loyalists. Where Capitols expressed themselves with extravagant colours and yearned for the spotlight, Gideon was content to keep at his own pace.

I suppose all that, alongside his 'relatable' appearance to a district-dweller is why he was given the revived position of prime minister. Sponsoring me during my darkest hour, alongside being a frequent visitor to my parents' lakeside retreat granted him 'family friend' status.

"Congratulations on the promotion," I begin, smirking as I watch the more recent Victors dancing together in a blob of ' _group love_ '. "Gideon Montresor… _Prime Minister of Panem._ Seems fitting."

"I'm not the sort to wade waist deep into the fray…" Gideon drawls, "But _someone_ has to play caretaker. Everyone else – including _you_ – seems to think so."

"It was _smart_ on DeWynter's part…good optics." I reply, allowing Gideon to guide me closer to the mass of swaying partygoers. "But I imagine that you didn't approach me for more back-patting?"

He smiles that knowing smile once more. "I couldn't help but watch as you wracked your brain by the bar over there," he replies, his voice lowered. "I imagine a certain… _quell twist_ is the culprit?"

I lean in closer towards him, lifting my lips to his ear. "Why _adults?"_

"In all honesty, the cards weren't fixed." He replies flatly.

Upon hearing this, I relax our embrace and shoot him an incredulous gaze.

"A shocker, _I know._ Imagine filling an arena with a bunch of Rebel veterans with nothing to lose. It'd be too much of a headache to execute. So, the reapings will be based on percentile relating to tesserae usage by all members of the family, rebel affiliation from both wars, etcetera." He jostles his head in thought, "Sure, there may or may not be individuals deemed troublesome thrown into the mix…but that's nothing amiss in the eyes of the viewer."

I shake my head. I doubt these Games would go as smoothly as the Capitol thinks they will. "So reaping doctors, teachers, and community beacons won't cause a headache?"

He raises his eyebrows and nods in agreement. " _Fair point._ However, we aren't in the days of Snow. I'm sure with all the recent investments into the economic expansion, secondary and tertiary industries of the districts will replace any potential brain drain…and any potential _unrest_ because of said losses."

"And if it doesn't?" I inquire.

Gideon's face becomes grim. "For the sake of their friends, family and newfound freedoms, I imagine many have come to appreciate the Capitol's newfound generosity and wouldn't want their conditions to revert."

I frown, glancing toward Everett as he continues to slow dance with a much older paramour. His words could apply directly to us in District 7. With Everett's win, we're _finally_ getting into the swing of things in regards to our place in Panem. Glancing at the cybernetic metal that was now my left arm, I have my fare share of bones to pick…and ghosts to repress. My problems dwindle in comparison to the hundreds of thousands of lives back home who could be affected by what is now considered 'grievances of a minority'.

We tried and failed _twice_ to fight for what was right…but fate screwed us over _both_ times. Like old man said…things _were_ getting better. The Games weren't dominating everyday life, and people outside the Capitol are beginning to have some semblance of independence.

…Maybe it's best to just _live with it?_ Call me a battered wife, but things could be a lot worse, _no?_

* * *

 **Zinnia Parsons, 21**  
 **Victor of the 93rd Hunger Games**  
January 25th, 2163 (100 HG)

* * *

We were so _, so close…_

Breathing a sigh of defeat and utter sorrow, I turn the letter over in my hands once more _._ I can't help it but bleat out a sharp cry as my brain constantly thinks about the _what if. What if_ President Kane weren't assassinated, _what if_ his son actually succeeded with his takeover?

 _What if_ Panem returned to what its founders intended – a beacon for values almost lost, where everyone has a slice at freedom, not just an uppity few in a gilded city?

Finally, I glance down at letter sent to me straight from the Presidential Mansion and read it over again. _Just_ to make sure I'm not illiterate.

 _Dearest Zinnia,_

 _You have grown into a beautiful young woman fit for the title of victor. You've endured significant trauma during your ascension to victorhood, and the Capitol honors you for your tenacity._

 _However, the officials at Victors' Affairs deem you ready for your next set responsibilities as a member of Panem's lucky – and coveted – few._

 _As you may already know, many fans and sponsors of yours yearn for your presence in the Capitol more and more. I invite you to the Capitol again in February, in which you and I may discuss what these 'interactions' will entail and how to better 'service' your fanbase now that time has passed._

 _Yours,_

 _Viondra Celine DeWynter_

 _President of Panem._

"Zinny sweetie, are you alright?" Mama asks, watching with Paisley as I brush past my siblings and stumble towards the front door. I turn and meet the concerned faces behind me. I offer a smile, but my clammy skin and queasy stomach betray me.

"I'm gonna go take a breather, is all."

In seconds I'm out the door, puking up my breakfast onto a snow bank. Paisley is right behind me, caressing my back.

"Child, you need to _breathe."_ she yearns.

My body growing warmer by the second with anger, I glare daggers at the older woman. "… _Why_ ," I breathe, with a voice trembling with rage, "Didn't you _tell_ me?!"

"President Kane thought you were too young and with the Games supposedly endin', I thought Clarence and I could let you live your life…I suppose not." Knowing the excuse was subpar; she scoffs and shakes her head. "I'm _sorry,_ beloved. I didn't think it'd come to-to _this!_ "

The weird concoction of rage and fatigue from throwing up renders me weak as I drop onto the veranda. It's not _her_ fault entirely, it's _mine._ How could I be so _fucking_ naïve…? I've seen how flirtatious and sultry the Career females can be in real life or on television – I've heard the gossip, the way they make Capitol men and women alike weak at the knees. I've noticed how Francisco and Joyceta of Snow Island, once teen lovers, have become distant.

The revealing clothes at capitol appearances as I got older, the 'casual touches', and the dates with rich Capitol sons that I didn't think much of. It all makes sense."

I glance up at her, my eyes watering over. "Did they make _you_ do it…?"

Her chin raised in defiance, Paisley nods. "They stopped in HG 90, when I took over the orphanage and propped up the _'loving mother of the downtrodden'_ angle. It was because of _President Kane_ why you're starting so late. If it were up to him, none of y'all would be doing this _period_ …but we all know what happened to him."

Bleating out a low moan, I shake my head and caress my temples obsessively, not before crumpling the letter and tossing it over the veranda. Besides the occasional peck I've _never_ done anything. When I returned home I was too high on a pedestal for anyone to approach me…thinking back to my trips to the Capitol now those people are so _fucking disgusting…_ I – I –

My caressing comes to an end as Paisley clutches my hands and envelops them with hers.

"I know _, I know_ , beloved." She soothes, "There's no way to escape it. Unlike President Kane, DeWynter will-"

"Harm my folks," I finish without skipping a beat, "I know…" they say Jason Christos of Two had his pa killed because he got too chummy with district folks. I don't wanna come home and see my folks killed because of my ignorance. Ignorance to _what_ though, not wanting to have my innocence _taken_ by some uppity Capitol?!

"Come beloved," Paisley yearns as she gently yanks me off the ground. She brushes off my stockings and smoothes down my cheeks, thumbing away my tears. "We have a mandatory viewing to watch, it's gonna be important."

Defeated, I nod as we make our way back inside and into the living room. I nod in reassurance to Mama and my siblings, but they ain't buying it, instead gazing at me in concern. Their attention would be diverted to the holovision as the anthem begins to play and the test pattern interrupts the previous broadcast.

The cameras cut to Panem's National Assembly – a grand building in the Capitol where all of Panem's Districtorial representatives convene. Silent, we all watch as 'President-Elect' DeWynter takes the podium. With the seal of Panem looming over her, DeWynter commands absolute power as the mass of officials clap and cheer with fervor at her presence. It takes a single wave to silence their applause.

Her intentions are as clears as day now. Like a wolf in sheep's clothing, she lulled the nation into a false sense of security while offering _bogus_ solutions to _pertinent_ problems.

…Does _anybody_ even remember President Kane's pledge to _end the Games_ after this Quell…? _Of course not._

Men and women with dissenting opinions will continue to be _killed_.

I will continue to be the Capitol's toy until I'm _discarded_.

Children will continue to die for the enjoyment of a deluded _few_.

And there's _nothing, we can do, about it._

* * *

And with that, you may all go to **_metamorphosishgDOTblogspotDOTcom_** to see your tributes. To those who allowed me to choose a photo based on the person you wanted, I hope they're okay for you.

To the person who viewed before hand…I see you! And I will find you, and I will kill you.

Thank you guys for submitting. I don't have to apologize to anyone for not accepting them because I allowed you to first come and serve! Hahahahahha…haaah.

By general observation, It's going to be difficult killing off these characters. You guys put a lot of detail into them…because well, when was the last time you submitted adult tributes?

Because of this…my formatting may have to be a throwback to more simpler times. Which means 2 by 2 intros from Snow Island to Twelve. Good and Bad news since this format is somewhat archaic, but due to the 'twist', writing intros wouldn't tire someone as easily because they're adults with full lives.

Would you guys rather me skip things like reapings and chariots and what not, resulting in one point of view from your undeveloped character only for me to kill them off in the bloodbath? I don't think so.

I wanna do well by you guys, and I hope I do so as we get the ball rolling.

I know you guys are…busy, so reviews aren't detrimental, but I'd appreciate you hitting me up every now and then. In terms of this chapter, just general observations are cool. Or if you're up for it, do your own thing.

But since some of you saw the blog before hand, maybe you guys have a formulated opinion already that you can share down below, eh?

I'll see you in a day or two.

PS: I'm sorry in advance to you OCD people out there…some blog posts are "bold" while others are "plain"…blogger is difficult sometimes…

I will see you with the next chapter very very *very* shortly.


	6. SI: A Harvester and A Rightful Deserter

Thank you Platrium and Titanic-X for Donna and Ricardo.

* * *

 _ **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_

 ** _Snow Island: A 'Harvester' and A Rightful Deserter_**

* * *

 **Donna Cordillera, 49**  
 **Snow Island Female**  
May 11th, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

With my stomach in knots, I watch as the bus begins to slow while it approaches the stop. As it halts completely, my coworker and good friend, Jamaica Arabaita, disembarks. Her pearly white smile contrasts heavily with her dark skin upon seeing me.

"Ah, Donna llegas temprano!" she says, gently tapping the side of the bus. "Ella es todaaaa tuya…"

Her shift was over for the rest of the day, lucky her. As the rest of Havana begins to wake up and go about their day, Jamaica has _all day_ to herself, not having to worry about _idiota_ Capitol tourists and… _busy streets._ It was Hunger Games season after all, one of the busiest months in terms of vacationers coming in from the mainland. The usually calm island devolves into a rat-race until autumn.

I offer her a smile, embracing her with a hug and a customary kiss to both cheeks. "Gracias, Jamaica." I say warmly, "Are you finished for the day?"

"Mhm, I have some _negocios en el edificio del capitolio,_ so I stay with you." Us older Islanders never really took to learning mainland English in comparison to the younger ones as the Capitol became more and more invested here. Although I've taught her a thing or two, Jamaica, like many other Islanders, stick to a _hybrid_ of English and Spanish – _Spanglish_ if you will.

Jamaica reaches into her purse, retrieving a photo of her _beautiful_ baby boy. Baby _Francisco,_ named after our male victor – _Francisco Noriega_. "I register him today!"

Easing into my seat, I accept the photo offered by Jamaica and take it in. Baby Francisco was a real _encanto_ with his caramel skin, honey brown eyes and dark curly hair… _Miguel_ looked like that when _he_ was born… _Jocelyn_ looked like that _too_.

I feel Jamaica's hands caressing my forearm. " _Donna_ … estas _bien_?"

That pulls me out of my trance. To keep up appearances, I return the photo to my friend and offer her a bright smile. The past is the past…It'd be improper to impose it on her. It's my burden to bear, I can _take it._

"Francisco is _so muy lindo,_ I just had to get a good eyeful!" I lie, plastering a smile on my lips that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

"Don't worry about me, Jamaica," I say, patting her arm. " _Estoy bien_ and besides, I'm supposed to be worrying about _you_ , remember!?"

She buys my words, shrugging with a soft mew as she leaves me to punch in my numbers and get the bus rolling down the street towards the first stop of the day. I was wrong, I can _barely take it._ Jamaica's photo further exaggerated my anguish. No matter how many times I've done it, no matter how many years I've been _doing it_ – _driving this bus_ \- I always seem to get the jitters when I do… _this month_ more than most. I remember it as clear as day…the day _mi amado_ , _Feliz_ and our children were _taken_ from me. It was like any other day on Isla Nieve, sunny skies, bright smiles and broad horizons.

Jamaica prattles on about the long lineups that await her at the _Capitolio_ – _Hall of Justice_ – but I barely register her words, clutching the steering wheel as we approach the intersection. Sometimes, when I _really_ focus, I can envision myself ramming our car. I can envision the high pitched shrieks of Miguel and Jocelyn, the traumatized faces Feliz and I shared, the shards of glass and steel exploding in all directions as a bus _just like this_ tore through us like a tiburón would a _fish_.

Unfortunately in Panem, the world keeps moving. No one _cares_. Maybe I could barrel into one of these cars, or _multiple_ …make them feel how _I have_ for these twenty odd years. Despair… _hoplessness_ …I- _I_ …

"Dios Mio, _DONNA_!" cries Jamaica.

"Que!?"

She jabs a finger forward. "STOP!"

A sharp gasp escaping my lips, I slam my foot onto the breaks, Jamaica's one hand clutching my chest and the other a railing as the bus violently lurches forward. As the bus abruptly stops and settles with a loud screech, my body shifts forward and back again. Looking up, the flowing traffic of the intersection continues without incident. While the bus was well over the pedestrian lines, the cars opposite of me were neatly behind it.

Regaining her composure, Jamaica gulps. "Donna...what the hell was that?!"

I ignore her and I ignore the other whispers and glances of concern, staring straight ahead whilst opening the door to let the customers aboard.

"You ought to be careful there," chides a Capitol Tourist as she aides her children on board. "Imagine what the scene would look like if you _didn't_ stop?"

Offering her a meek smile, I roll my shoulders and close the door as the light prepares to turn green. I wish I _didn't_ stop…but a tenure at _Guantanamo_ or _Juventud_ is a fate I _can't_ afford.

"Oh genial…" bemoans Jamaica, pointing towards the roadblock up ahead. "Neptuno is _blocked_!"

"We have a tour scheduled at the Capitolio, and I would hate it if we were late…" adds a Tourist.

"Neptuno Boulevard is always blocked, mi amore," I reply, my pain diluting just a little bit. "No problem. Luckily for all of you, Donna likes to plan ahead!"

In Isla Nieve, it is an _absolute must_ to know your home like the back of your hand. Call it _'being strategic_ '. Like in the Capitol holofilms, I put the _'pedal to the metal'_ so to speak. The bus's engine roars in response, and the passengers cry out in shock as I bank left onto _Zanja_ and towards our destination.

…

"Mama, I'm home!" I announce, shutting the door to our modest bungalow.

Sifting through multiple flyers, I'm confronted by a letter from the Ministry of Districts' Affairs. _Apparently I,_ Donna Ludra Cordillera, rank in the _85th percentile_ within the reaping pool for this year's _Hunger Games._ I'm _right up_ there with the other rebels, criminals and dissidents who are _far_ more deserving for the reaping than I am. I can't help but let a cuss slip from my lips as I toss the letter in the trash, silently blaming my father's role in the Second Rebellion for my high placement. No doubt everyone ranking under the 50th percentile is rejoicing, not even having to _attend_ in person.

Out of all the people on this island, I _doubt_ it'll be me standing on the stage at the end of the day.

Mama makes her way into the kitchen. Upon seeing me, she begins eyeing me with confusion. " _Home,_ you step out _cinco minutos antes_ …?"

A soft sigh escapes my lips whilst I escort Mama to the kitchen table. " _No_ Mama… I went to work and finished my shift. Look at the time if you don't believe me!"

She does just that, glancing at the _"3:45"_ displayed on the starburst clock. The realization hits instantly as she murmurs a _"Oh dios mio…"_ and caresses her cheek with her free hand.

Not wanting Mama to feel anyway about what cannot be helped, I plant a kiss on her forehead. "It's okay Mama. How about some salad, you must be _famélico,_ I know I am!"

So I do just that, preparing a salad fit for President DeWynter herself, dressed with everything from chicken, shredded mozzarella, to croutons. Mama helps too of course, for I wouldn't have developed my love for this dish – enough to work at a restaurant specializing in it – if it weren't for her. Although we may have overdone it when it came to the ingredients, because she kept adding them in even though she already did so minutes prior.

"So, Mama…how's your book coming along!?" I ask, washing down a bite of salad with some water. She slides her tablet over to me _–best investment ever._ Since Mama can't work, she spends most of her days writing romance novels – a series involving a Peacekeeper and an impressionable _señorita_ during the Second Rebellion. She's garnered quite a following on the island thus far.

"It goes well!" She chirps, taking a sip of drink. 'Well'… is a little bit of a stretch. I frown as the latest chapter, in which the male Peacekeeper goes off to fight his final battle – supposedly – devolves into a _horror_ scene mid-chapter, with the Peacekeeper being a vampire and coveting the girl.

It's almost as if she…forgot mid way…

"After a night of passion, Saria fears for Lieutenant Socrates' life as he moves eastward to flush the Rebels from out the jungles…or at least I _think_." Mama frowns, her face scrounged in confusion.

Sighing, I move from the table to retrieve my own tablet. Luckily I have her rough notes here with me as a backup.

…

With the day transitioning to night, Isla Nieve and all its vices are out in full swing. And like many native islanders, I shed my daytime persona of a sociable bus driver and dawn the skin of a street-smart, silver-tongued _party animal._

The doorman who was a good friend of mine, Zoro Matador, an Afro-Islander with a flirty personality and permanent smile, is quick to let Jamaica and I through. We exchange smiles, glancing back as he and his friends continue to whistle and purr vulgarity towards us.

"You two are looking _muy muy_ caliente, chica…" he calls after us.

"It's El Tropicana, one ought to be!" I shoot back playfully.

Established _waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay_ before Panem was _ever_ a thought, _El Tropicana_ was the club of choice for me and many other Islanders with the urge to party – those who could _afford_ it of course – _too much_ commoners would turn off the majority-Capitolite clientele. In fact, most resorts don't allow natives not employed to them to enter the premises, again only if you have connections or money. Jamaica and I, alongside Zoro and others have it good with one guy who has it good with Rafaela Novia, which usually allows us access to most attractions on the island.

With _Rafaela Novia_ in control following an alleged _' hostile takeover'_ , Tropicana was _booming._ As Isla Nieve was aptly dubbed " _The Capitol's Playground_ ", Tropicana was the _main attraction_. Attracting famous names from throughout Panem, the showgirls – _flesh goddesses –_ were dazzling, the wagers were high-rolling and the goings on within its many alcoves was _lucrative_ … _VERY_ lucrative.

After dancing to a _maraviloso_ big-band rendition of _"Mambo #5"_ , I approach the Man eyeing me from the bar. Wafting air towards my face with my fan, I sashay over and take my seat next to him. He was a regular, that I know, a _borracho_ with money to burn. That, and when drunk enough, would go on to detail his abusive exploits towards his younger newlywed wife.

All in all, he was a man in which this island _wouldn't_ miss.

"Hola Señorita…" he slurs, igniting his lighter as I withdraw a cigarette from my clutch.

"Donna." I say, leaning in and accepting the light.

"I must say…I've been watching ya' for some time now an' for someone of a finer vintage," he hiccups mid-sentence, "Y'still got it."

"I too have been watching you as well," I reply, glancing hard at the barkeep who I also know – _Nika Valenzuela._ She _understands_ immediately, moving to prepare us drinks. "The way your wife is acting is pathetic if you ask me. What you need is a woman who _understands_ you…"

Nodding, his hand caresses my thigh. "Is that someone _you_ , perhaps?"

My lips curl into a smile as I eek out "I'd like it to be?"

He moves to kiss me, only for his lips to meet the palm of my hand.

"Up, _bup, bup_ ," I tut, "I prefer displaying motions of intimacy in _private."_ I turn to Nika as she serves us both a glass of rum. She nods as do I as I provide him with a tumbler. "Please drink, it's on the house. After this glass, maybe we could get a room and I could provide you a taste of that _finer vintage."_

With a husky purr in agreement, he quickly downs his cup while I follow his notion. From the taxicab to the hotel, the oaf couldn't keep his hands off me. Kissing and caressing one another down the hall, he fumbles for a second or two before managing to get the door open. Breaking apart for air, I flick off my flats and fall onto the bed. Taking off his shirt, he stumbles after me. He takes one step, two steps before falling face first onto the cold tiles – knocked out completely.

Sighing, I retrieve my Smartphone and dial. "Elgor, you can come up now."

…

Elgor Cruz breathes a sigh of relief as he relieves himself of the blood-soiled scrubs, stuffing the garment into a plastic bag as he leaves the washroom.

"Well," he begins, smiling at me, "Another day another _successful_ harvest. _Buen trabajo_ , working those moves on him."

I shrug, peering into the washroom to look over Elgor's handiwork. "Almost fifty and _still going strong_ , amore."

For a messy job such as the removal of someone's kidneys, we cleaned up pretty well. The man in question, unconscious on top of a mound of ice didn't look all that bad, minus the two fresh insertions on his stomach. Drying him up and adjusting his clothing, Elgor and I ease the man onto the bed. With the drugs slipped into his drink by Nika and the extra shot after calling Elgor, he won't be waking up anytime soon.

"He's quite the drinker. Will they fetch a good price?" I ask, sending a casual glance our 'patients' way.

Elgor waves his hand dismissively. "With all the mierda going on in the south, they'll take all the parts they could _get_."

Being on Panem's outer fringes as a 'territory' makes Isla Nieve more privy to the happenings of the outside world. It's not unheard of to receive refugees from backwater islands ravaged by extreme poverty and war. Where resources are extremely scarce, fresh blood and organs would be a _godsscend_. The Capitol interferes with these nations, the Peacekeepers Elgor and I speak to say – suck them of their resources and install proxies to keep the hustle going. So, for _twenty_ years going on, Elgor, Jamaica, I and others have aided in this trade. Not so much innocents, but vagabonds and nobodies are usually the targets.

"Let's get outta here, Donna…" says Elgor, nodding towards the door. "Get this thing on ice proper."

Nodding, I spare one last glance at the man lying on the bed. My mind is void of any thoughts of pity, as the island could do _less_ with wastes like _him_. Mama gets to remain with me and live comfortably, and _I_ get to recover from the losses that afflicted me twenty-odd years ago.

It's all a means to an end.

* * *

 **Ricardo Marcenas, 59**  
 **Snow Island Male**  
May 15, 2163 (100 HG)

* * *

I watch as Enrique and Maria alongside their gaggle of community home friends sing an acapella of _'Chan, Chan'_ a song revered by our people for what seems to be centuries. In _CUBA_ everyone is good at something, whether it be navigating the seas of the Carrib, farming the land or in their case – entertaining. The kids do the song a good service, utilizing their voice, maracas, guitars and other instruments to create a melody so rich that it attracts a healthy crowd of tourists and islanders alike.

 _"De Alto Cedro voy para Marcané  
Llego a Cueto, voy para Mayarí."_

 _"Cuando Juanica y Chan Chan,  
En el mar cernían arena,  
Como sacudía el jibe,  
A Chan Chan le daba pena."_

Some Capitol tourists stop and record the performance, giggling and oohing with awe. Them dropping a few coins into the bucket before the children stems my distain for them by an inch. I remember when I was a child way back when, before Panem _subverted_ us. Us _Cubans_ didn't have much, and by didn't have much, I mean the _absolute minimum._ But things were better then. We had a heightened sense of community and togetherness as the disasters isolated our island and almost rendered us extinct. Now look, our children have to placate the same people who cheer on their deaths every year. It's _disgusting_.

…And to think we, my family, believed in this ' _country'_ enough to offer our nautical services.

As they finish, I join the chorus of applause and step forward as the crowd begins to dissipate. " _Bravo, bravo_! The _Buena Vista Social Club_ must be smiling from up above."

Their faces light up at the sight of me. Before I know it I'm surrounded by the six of them "Señor Marcenas, Señor Marcenas!"

" _Woah woah, fácil fácil_ …" raising my hands in faux surrender, I nod towards the bucket. "I see you guys have garnered quite the profit this afternoon."

Maria smiles, sporting her gap tooth as she makes way for Enrique, who counts the proceeds as he walks over. His eyes glimmer as he observes a gold coin.

"We earned like… _fifty_ PD's!" he exclaims.

Another boy of about the same age, thirteen, chimes in. "If we converted those to pesos...we'd be set for semanas, _semanas_!"

With the Panemian Dollar, used by tourists and wealthy emigrants, being the superior currency by a mile, many _Cubanos_ flock to state jobs such as tourism, shipbuilding or farming so they can exchange the PD for an ample amount of local currency to buy staple goods. They pay in local currency alone is barely enough.

I smirk, retrieving a string purse from my satchel. "Here, add another fifty dollars to your earnings."

Their gasps only just contribute to my widened smile. " _Really_ , Señor!?" Maria exclaims, accepting the purse as her friends huddle around and behold it. In unison, they glance up from the purse and regard me awe. "Tell me, why are you so good to us?"

I shrug. I remember being just like them, living on the naval base and grifting on the street with the other children to avoid feeding off the Capitol's teat. With them having this money once in a while, it prevents them from seeking tesserae. And as long as I can save a dozen children from the farce that were the Hunger Games, I am _satisfied_. Where others would call this foolish, I declare it _just._

I gently clasp her shoulder. "Because _who else_ will? Now go, take the money and _keep it to yourselves._ "

After seeing the orphans off, I decide to patron the famed _Dos Hermanos_ bar. It's about two o'clock, so the tourists are few, preferring to come out at night. Taking a seat on an ornate stool, I order my drink and take in my immediate area. A couple of seats to my left my good eye spots a young woman in the jumpsuit of a sailor in Panem's navy, sporting the rank of Junior Lieutenant. She was at least in her late twenties, sharing the same tanned complexion, dirty blond hair and blue eyes as I do…

"Sofia…?" I call out to her.

My sister glances up from her lunch. Upon seeing me, a deep scowl washes over her face as she returns to her meal. Unperturbed, I shuffle over towards her.

"Where did you leave off too?" I ask.

She swallows a bit of her food. "Deployment to the Orient…about six months."

I shake my head. "How long have you been _back_?"

"Month." She grunts bluntly.

My vision flashes red. But for the love of family, even if it is not returned, trumps my anger. She could've _died_ , and then how would our parents react? "And you thought it was okay to say _nothing_ before or _after_ leaving and coming back?"

"I'm sorry..." she laments, her tone reeking of faux sweetness. "I was too busy trying to return _honor_ back to our family's _tarnished_ name."

My hands latch around my glass for dear life. "… _Look around you_ , Sofia." I hiss, leaning in toward her. "Is this the type of nation you want to lay everything on the line for?"

As if on cue, the television overhead returns from commercial and cuts to a panel of Hunger Games 'enthusiasts' fervently chatting amongst themselves as they discuss the recent Victor from District 6.

Scoffing, she shoves her plate forward. "I - _we –_ owe the Capitol _everything._ I take my oath to defend both it and country from enemies foreign and domestic _very seriously,_ unlike you-"

"From parents and siblings whose loved ones die every year for _sick entertainment_?"

" _Rebels_ who would've turned Panem into any other hellhole on earth due to treasonous deserters like you and my ' _father'_." She seethes, rising out of her seat and slamming her payment on the table. "Goodbye, Ricardo. If there was anyone who deserved to be reaped, you'd be high on the list."

Downing my drink, I nod her off. "I'm sorry you're so far gone."

As she stomps off and joins her buddies who wait by the entryway, her words prompt me to reach into my satchel and withdraw a notice mailed to me and every adult from the _Ministry of Districts' Affairs._

 _…_

Being on the water, especially on my father and I's boat – affectionately named ' _Joan'_ after Mama – is usually a place of calm. This calm is impeded, by this blasted letter and the universe supporting my sisters demeaning words.

 _"In accordance with the Treaty of Treason, Section 8, articles 10, 11 and 12 – the reaping selection system for the Annual Hunger Games has ranked your probability of selection to the **90th percentile.** This is **above** the 50% threshold. **Therefore, your attendance is mandatory.** Failure to enroll will result in prosecution as per Section 2(d) of the Treaty."_

Taking one last hearty glance at the _pedazo de mierda_ in my hands, I shred it, I tossing it off the side of the boat and into the sea. If I had no sense, this entire ship would be sinking due to my _tearing it up board by board_ to offset my rage.

"The _ninetieth percentile_ , can you believe that, padre?" I lament, leaning against the railing. "All because I don't follow the beat of the Capitol's drum…what a crock of _mierda!_ "

Padre – _father_ –shakes his head with a heavy sigh. "I wouldn't throw in the towel yet, _mijo_. _Cuba_ is filled with criminal scum indebted to the Capitol. Right now, who they reap is up in the air."

"And if I am selected?" I reply tersely.

"Ohh, you take after your Mama way too much…so pessimistic and fiery. Don't tell her I said that!" he laughs, although his boisterous cackle is cut off by a coughing fit as he stifles it with his handkerchief. Taking a seat beside him, I adjust his blanket to better shield him from the gales of the Carrib Sea.

"If that becomes the case, you do not waver when it pertains to your morals. Be _steadfast_ in your beliefs."

I nod. I doubt some Peacekeeper who did something twenty-five years ago will kick up a fuss over other unsavory characters on the island. Even so, if I find that the government is as _petty_ as I perceive them to be, I'll be sure to _never_ let them live it down. Certainly people on the mainland carry the same mindset as I do _if_ it comes to this. Let the leaves fall where they may, I suppose.

"Enough talk about the Capitol and their ' _Games'_." I say, turning towards the steering wheel. "Let's say the Captain and his XO go off on another voyage, like old times?"

"As far as a voyage _can_ go without a submarine blowing us to _añicos_ …" Padre grins.

"Why, for us being who _we are_ or for sailing past the _boundary_?" I ask, preparing to set sail.

Rubbing his chin, he shrugs. "Good question."

* * *

 **Francisco Noriega, 17**  
 **Victor of the 94th Hunger Games**  
May 22nd, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

"Francisco, despierta!"

" _Huuuuuughnn_ …go _away. Dios mio…"_

" _Despierta_ , maniquí!"

Hissing at the liquid that splashes my face, my cries are cut short as I tumble into the pool in earnest. Now I'm _really awake._ As I clamber my way back up to the surface, the first thing I see are manicured toenails. I look up further to see the petite form of Rafaela Novia, her pink-tinted round sunglasses reflecting off the morning sun. It _was_ morning right?

" _Really_ , Raf!?" I groan whilst shivering as the cold water chills me to the bone.

"Someone's been partying hard…" she muses, watching as I clamber back onto the inner tube that was my bed for the night.

"Mmm, if I were with you, I'd be asleep in an alleyway or something." I mutter while glancing around at all the half-full liquor bottles that float around me. Some local ladies that we've hired to work as housekeepers for our Victor's Village are busy cleaning up the mess of yesterday's festivities.

"What time is it?" I inquire.

"About time for _desayuno tardío."_ Rafaela answers. "Come on, get dressed. I got food from the resort."

My ears perk at ' _food_ '. "Pancakes, fried eggs and ham...?"

Rafaela nods. "Mhm. And café con leche...your _favouritees._ "

That's enough to get me out of my haze, into the shower, fully dressed and over to Raf's house for brunch. During all this though, I couldn't help but gaze at the space that Joyceta used to occupy on our bed or her house that sits on the far left side of the Village as I walked over to Raf's house…which is basically _everyone's house_ if you really think about it. The thought of Joyceta dissipates slightly as Raf plops a plate of breakfast on the table.

" _This_ should clear all the drink out of your system." She says with a smirk, playfully caressing my neck. "Come, mi hermano."

I return her smile with one of my own. " _Thanks_ Raf."

She's like an older sister to us, really. Even though Joyceta and I busted the odds at the ripe old age of twelve only for her to win a year later at fifteen, Rafaela seems to have taken the lead with things. I'm not sure where Snow Island would be without her. Our Capitol-appointed mentor, Captain Onassis, would probably still be coddling us.

"So…any significance to today's reaping?" I ask, watching as some Capitolites on HV gush about today's Reaping Day festivities.

"Onassis says volunteers are unlikely this year," Says Rafaela, adjusting her glasses before taking another bite of her breakfast. "Our pool of trained tributes are too young and small and the general population is pretty content with their lives. Still, it would be nice to have a consistent roster of volunteers to choose from."

"Are we still starting up the _school?"_ I ask. Since our triple victory back in HG 94 and 95, Isla Nieve has been coasting on the popularity ever since…but I still yearn to be on the same level as District 1 or 2. "I wanna get serious about establishing a volunteer base as soon as possible."

Sheen reflects off her glasses as her lips curl upward. "Of _course_. I'm in talks with my foundation to finalize the plans as we speak. I was thinking we should break ground on _Juventud_."

" _Wait wait wait_ , your ' _foundation'?_ " I inquire with one eyebrow raised.

"Gotta consolidate my millions somehow…" She trills in reply.

…About that, even though I'm at her hip most of the time, I really don't know how Rafaela amassed so much money and resources in such a short period of time. The magazines declare her one of the richest victors to have lived. I imagine that running multiple resorts and clubs across the island would make her so. Not to mention her parents' ties to Isla Nieve's criminal element.

"You never told me where you got this." I say, slipping into the seat of her antiquated _Chevrolet_. Whereas other autos have rusted away, this two-hundred year old mint green relic was well-preserved. Comfy cream interior, tailfins to die for…even now as we make our way into the city, it rides as smooth as any other modern automobile.

Rafaela's face hardens a tad. "The old saying goes _, 'revenge is a dish best served cold'_ …although I disagree with that. Revenge is a dish best served with a fist down your lesser's _throat_. "

"…I think that explains it well enough."

…

"Here we are, all together again!" our escort Melanie Vasquez beams, placing a hand on my shoulder as Raf and I arrive. "Rafaela…Francisco _and_ Joyceta…" as she does this her voice wanes at the mention of Joyceta and I. Melanie knows _damn well_ about our current state. When the mud browns of Joyceta's eyes meet mine, I thought I was going to collapse then and there. We exchange glances for a moment before quickly averting our eyes.

" _Still_?" whispers Rafaela over the cheers of the audience as the 'Governor' – a Headpeacekeeper – announces our names.

I sigh. "… _Still_."

We won pretty young, Joyceta and I. Part of me yearns for the days in which she and I were considered two kids who miraculously survived the Games. As we got older however…people regarded us as _more_ than 'cute'…it's all history from there.

As we wave and smile to our adoring public, Rafaela's cocky demeanor fades away. Her head darting from left to right, she stills at the mass of people cheering and raising their hands to us out of longing adoration. Where I see normal people, Rafaela probably sees the _undead_ of the 95th Games she won. She never was a crowds person since then. That's why we're here – Onassis, Melanie, Joyceta and I. All it takes is my gentle squeezing of the hand and an escort to her seat to bring who is essentially my sister back to earth.

"Gracias, Francisco." she breathes, her tone unusually unconfident. Thankfully, her small episode wasn't caught by the audience and island grandees that sit behind the podium.

I rub her shoulder against mine. "We're _family_ Raf. No need to thank me."

Captain Onassis claps me on the back as I settle in on the throne beside him. "How are you, kid?"

I smile, glancing beyond stage towards the pool of tributes this year has to offer, "A-OK, _Capitan_. Just taking in our potential prospects."

They look _somewhat_ decent. Whether it be the prisoners shuffled into their respective aisle by watchful Peacekeepers, or the rainbow of coloured Islanders – lean and healthy – who wait with curiosity. We're a very… _suficiente_ people, us Islanders. Whether it be civil defense training due to being located on Panem's fringes, criminality or schooling from District 1 or 2, whoever gets reaped will be decent enough. But not decent enough as they _could be._

Melanie makes her way to the podium in a pair of patterned shorts and a bandeau. _"Hola Isla Nieve, Como estas!?"_

Typical of us Islander boys and men, a hurl of wolf whistles and flirtatious calls are sent her way. Judging by her reddened skin tone, the message was received. "My, my…calling you all 'silver-tongued' would be an _understatement_. With all the pleasantries said and done, let is select our female tribute!"

With a tug of the lever, the jumboscreen scrolls through various faces until settling on a middle-aged woman. "Donna Ludra Cordillera!"

The pool of middle age women part for an Islander with tanned skin and neck-level brown hair. She wore a patterned sienna dress as she accepted her fate and casually strolled down the aisle and onto the stage. A nudge and jut of a finger from Raf allows me to watch as Donna's hands trembled with rage as they bunched up the fabric of her dress.

Melanie smiles to the audience at large. "No volunteers?" she inquires. "Well then, onto our male tribu- _ack_!"

Donna's hands wrap around the neck of the much more petite Melanie, shaking her ragged as if they were both cartoon characters. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH ¡ESTÚPIDO COÑO, SI NO TUVIERA SENTIDO TE MATARÍA!"

Before the Peacekeepers could subdue the _vieja loca_ , gasps of shock ring out as Melanie was lunched down the stage. It took Onassis and some Peacekeepers to carry Melanie back up again. Apart from askew sunglasses, Melanie seemed okay…I guess. Rafaela couldn't help but let out a cackle, but Joyceta's face is shielded by sunglasses. The thin line that was her lips show that she was indifferent. Maybe her mind was on other things, like our conflict with one another.

"Woaaaah…what a doozy!" I take that back, Melanie is _definitely_ not okay. "Well, at least we have a fighter in her, amirite or amirite?! _Okay_ , onto the maaales!"

This time, the screen stops on a man with chiseled facial features, dirty blond hair and greenish blue eyes…well, _eye,_ as one of them was blind. "Ricardo Marcenas, c'mon down dowwwwn."

The man in question was most certainly a _Peacekeeper…_ but the black uniform which was more formal than, compared to Onassis' which was grey and sported a pauldron. It was definitely Navy, judging by the anchor on his cap. Overall, the man was shocked as Melanie called him. That shock turned to anger as he made his way up the steps, fuming as he exchanged glances with the Captain.

"It's an _ancient-American_ uniform." Onassis says aloud, as if he read my thoughts. "Apparently _someone_ can't let go of the past."

" _Welp_ here we are Isla Nieve, your-your tributes for the One-Hundred and Twenty-First Hunger Games, _Monica and Eduardo_!" Melanie slurs, teetering back and forth as she gestured to Donna and Ricardo. "Shake hands, you two!"

That wasn't happening. With Donna handcuffed and Ricardo silently defiant, the two only glared beams at the confused escort as she scoffed, shoving them both as she retook the microphone.

"Pfft, _whatever_ …¡Juegos felices del Hambre!" she bleats, pausing only to groan with pain as she caresses her temple. "¡Las probabilidades pueden estar siempre _a tu favor_!" and with that, Melanie was down for the count, dropping to the ground as both her feet followed. The crowd ate it all up, _obviously_.

I find myself rubbing my neck, already not looking forward to be branded as 'problematic' by the head honchos in the Capitol. "Well, that was new…A few more reapings like that and we'll be on par with District 1 for entertainment value."

"What, Melanie's revealing outfits weren't enough entertainment?" quips Rafaela. "I'll take Donna. Unlike Marcenas, I can channel her anger towards more productive means. Besides, I know her from around town."

I nod. "So…Joyceta-" Joyceta was already _gone,_ probably off aiding Melanie. I turn to Onassis instead. "What's the story on this Ricardo guy?"

Onassis folds his arms. "He _was_ a Peacekeeper in the Navy. Certain… ' _sympathies'_ relegated him to tribute status."

" _Great_ , so _I_ have to ' _mentor'_ the turncoat captain?!" I hiss, leaning in toward him. "Why can't _you_ do it, you guys rigged him in!?"

I frown as Onassis casually waves his hand in dismissal, joining Rafaela as they begin down the steps. " _No, no, no…_ you're old enough to take up the mantle. If you're not totally hopeless by… _Friday_ , maybe I could be of help."

Scoffing sharply, all I could do was sink into my chair – _hopeless_. Whatever, I'll just let fate take its course. Once we get back and get started on a tangible academy, Isla Nieve can start maintaining its viability…and maybe stop bad eggs from ruining our standing with the Capitol.

Joyceta leaves the Capitolio now, with Melanie hooked to her arm as she nursed an icepack. As I watch Joyceta bound down the steps without casting me a glance, I figured that Marcenas was the very least of my troubles.


	7. D1: A Ailing Exec and A Reluctant Heir

**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**

 ** _District 1: An Ailing Exec and A Reluctant Heir_**

* * *

 **Aurelia Baudelaire, 31**  
 **District One Female**  
May 15th, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

I abruptly make my way through the glass doors into the offices of _Baudelaire Luxury Goods._ Nothing's changed within the last three months since my self-imposed exile…the office still had the same mahogany walls, pastel-coloured schemes and shapely furniture. Lazily, I drag my hand across the cursive logo on the wall, then across the portraits of Justus and Morena Baudelaire – my _parents_ , that sit right above it.

 _"My friends, never again will you ever have to toll away on a luxury good, only for it to be shipped to a city miles away or for it to be redistributed back to you for an exorbitant price tag…"_ I turn towards the holoprojection behind me, watching as a younger version of my father and mother recite our family's mission statement during our store's 100th anniversary. _"…And so my friends, from my family to our District One family at-large, I present to you "Baudelaire Luxury Goods - Luxury living for less, **guaranteed**."_

"Oh my _stars_ …Ms. _Baudelaire_ , is that _you_!?"

I turn towards the typing pool, flashing a weak smile towards the astonished and pitying faces that gawk at me. I barely noticed they were there, until now. The 'pinging' of fingers to holographic keyboards stop and all conversation lowers as I begin sauntering out of reception and towards the pool of typists and associates.

"Hello everyone," I say aloud, my cheeks red whilst scanning the room. "I'm happy to be back… _permanently!"_

It all starts with one clap. That clap would devolve into a chorus of applause and soft cheers. As much as I wanted to break down and cry at the amount of love being sent my way, I instead return the cheers with a lifted chin and a solemn smile. Now was _not_ the time for weakness. I've spent enough time wallowing. What they need right now is the Aurelia they _always_ knew – articulate, mature, the _perfect_ lady.

I make my way into the pool of secretaries and associates. Shaking their hands and accepting their well-wishes. "Thank you Sapphire…I absolutely _adore_ your dress today. I saw your artwork for our upcoming summer line Salvatore; I can't _wait_ to see them come to life!"

My secretary, Topaz Wright, quickly zips over to greet me with a hug that could kill a mutt. "Miss, I'm so _very glad_ you're back," she chirps, taking my coat. "Here, lemme take that off your hands."

"Thank you kindly, Topaz." I reply, glancing at her kinky curls. "Your style looks superb. I wish I could do it like that!"

Topaz smiles while giving her hair a gentle pat, "Well _sure_ you can, if you permed it! Would you like a snack from the cart?" she asks, nodding as I shake my head no. "No problem. As you already know, Mr. Cosgrove is leading the board members meeting. It just started, so you'll fit _right in!"_

"Lead the way…" I say, albeit shakily as I gesture forward.

…

"All metrics currently indicate that renovations like the ones we've undergone here at head office and in the Capitol would suffice _immensely_ at all locations."

Under the cover of darkness cigarette vapor, Topaz and I slink into the boardroom as Luxe Cosgrove casually saunters around a holoprojector with a clicker in hand. In front of him surrounding a wide mahogany table in large leather chairs sat nine other executives that made up _Baudelaire's_ Board of Directors. They were Mother and Father's people moreso than _mine_ , but some of them meant well. If it weren't for Father's will and ingenious thinking, Baudelaire would've been swamped by infighting and hostile takeovers due to my… _temporary withdrawal._

"Ahem…" interrupts Topaz. "Members of the board, Chairwoman Ms. _Aurelia Baudelaire_ has arrived."

As if on command rather than _absolute shock_ , all chairs turned towards me, their occupants casting me the same flabbergasted look as my other associates did. _Gaius Fleming_ was harder to read. Even as a hologram, the COO of Capitol Region Operations' expression was a mix of surprise and disappointment as he adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. Nonetheless, they all rise and applaud at the sight of me.

"Thank you all from the bottom of my heart." I say, inclining my head. Remember Aurelia…articulate, mature – the perfect lady. "What's this about renovations? Now that I'm in office, I'd rather hear it from the mouth than _hard copy_."

Luxe clears his throat, gesturing for our head of the creative department Laurel O'Shea, to make a seat available for me. "Of course, Aurelia! Please take a seat. We'll explain it in detail for you."

Laurel does just that, patting a leather chair as I make myself comfortable. She offers me a _Lucky Drag_ , which I take and ignite myself. The holoprojector flickers as Luxe scrolls the various images of _Baudelaire_ locations, only to settle on our site in Billings, bordering District 9.

"For example, in Billings, we were thinking about doing away with the first floor stone façade and install wide windows…"

"It increases visibility, draws in wandering eyes…" The Billings Manager, Reginald Tester, adds.

Luxe nods, casting an inquisitive glance at me. His lips frown slightly at my lack of a visual response. "Erm yes…and on top of that, the board believes that luncheon tables would further add convenience and 'flare' to our various locations."

Nodding slightly, I cross one leg over the other as I extinguish my cigarette. Father, Mother and I always preferred the pre-Panem architecture of our stores – stone facades that lasted throughout the centuries. When the _board_ presented change, they were always reluctant to deviate from the established formula. I guess their way of business rubbed off on me.

"Changing the façade sounds alright…but why _luncheon counters_?" I inquire, waving my hand as the holoprojector showcases a concept image of gal pals indulging in milkshakes. "I don't know. It seems like something akin to a _pharmacy_ , not a _luxury goods store_."

Gaius seems to disagree. "Why _not_ , _Steinberg's_ _Grocery_ does it? And _they_ are _Panemwide._ Metrics here in the Capitol show that our beta runs of the luncheon counter have _bolstered_ our profit margins. Who doesn't like food _and_ shopping at the same time?"

Luxe nods. "Besides, it's better to keep the potential 'after shopping snack' money _inside_ Baudelaire than out. You get us?"

"I _suppose_ …looking at this menu here, it seems to take after a café rather than a stand outside _a mineral dig._ " I muse with uncertainty, caressing my temples as the room breaks into light laughter. They're only trying to make the company _succeed_.

Luxe smiles. " _Exactly_ , people should expect luxury food items from a luxury department store. And so, with those cosmetic changes, alongside the addition of on-site restaurants, new locations, logo face lift and aggressive ad campaigns featuring Panem's favourite musical quadruplets, _Baudelaire_ has nowhere to go, but _up_."

The holoprojector showcases the upgraded concept of a Baudelaire store. Its lights contrasting with District One's big evening sky, cars can be seen driving past and patrons entering and leaving the store as musical heartthrob _Roy Nakashima takes_ the forefront of the artwork, leading his siblings toward the golden-door entrance with a glistening smile.

 _"Baudelaire – Luxury Living for Less, **Guaranteed.** "_

My heart soars at the inclusion of a portion of Father's quote. The collective soft sighs throughout the room and a smile from Luxe reflects this.

"I like it." I say, glancing around the boardroom as I nod at the various faces that return the gesture. "If we are to continue from the… _tragedy_ that afflicted our company then we need to make some changes. I believe we're moving in the right direction."

"I'm glad you think so," says Luxe, his features softening as he looks the room over. "Although it seldom applies to us, I would like to remind you all that our mandatory meeting pertaining to this year's Hunger Games and its implications will take place this Friday. Until then, take it easy!"

…

"Later on at two o' clock, we have auditions for our upcoming holovision spot." Trills Topaz as we arrive at the pink double doors of my office.

"Is that all for now, Topaz?"

"Mhm! Do you need anything?"

I place a hand on her shoulder. "No Topaz, thank you _very much_ for your tremendous help."

Entering the office, I quickly make a beeline to the mound of condolence cards and baskets left on top of my desk. It was so much of a shock that I forgot to turn on the lights!

"They must really care about you…" a voice muses.

My poniard withdrawn from my purse, I jut it towards the figure sitting on my settee. Shuffling towards the light switch, I nearly gasp at the sight of Nikolai raising his hands upward in shock. On the opposite end of the couch laid our son, Satin, who continues to sleep away.

"That's new…aren't you a little _old_ to be Career training?" He chuckles shakily, his attempt to defuse the situation. "I tried your house, but your housekeeper said you went to the office…so here I am."

"Oh Nikolai, I'm _so very_ sorry." I soothe, sheathing the knife and embracing him with a hug. I almost move in for a kiss, but stop myself without him catching on. My _selfish_ pursuits broke down that aspect of our relationship _long ago._ "…I can't be too trusting anymore. Not with what happened to Mother and Father."

"You still believe someone did it intentionally…?"

I nod. Just like President Kane and his son Archibald, my Father tried to take on the old guard here in District One by challenging Serene Westenfluss' governorship. Instead of the Career system dominating every aspect of One's community, he and Mother wanted to redistribute the wealth to other aspects of our economy…but of course, _they_ didn't like that. They were both _killed_ when a truck rammed their limousine head on.

…If I didn't back out of my engagement with them, _I too_ wouldn't be here today.

"I'm sure it was just a freak accident…" Nikolai muses sadly.

"Right, and President Kane getting his head _blown off_ and his son being _exiled_ from Panem were just coincidences too?" taking a silver bullet out of my purse alongside a threatening note that accompanied it, I shove them in front of his face. "THIS I found in my room just recently…these people are _fucking sycophants_ – pardon my Latin - all because of their allegiance to a glorified _deathmatch_!"

Nikolai suddenly stills. "The evidence is very overwhelming...I-I'm not sure how to respond to this."

Shrugging, I breathe out a deep sigh. "Me either..."

Nikolai nods off towards little Satin. "It's been awhile since you've seen him, I thought since you were feeling better, I'd bring him 'round."

Allowing myself a slight smile, I gently kneel down to Satin's sleeping form and caress his mousy brown hair. Denying all frivolous pleasures for the sake of the company, having _him_ with Nikolai was a worthwhile allowance. Due to my extensive work and what happened with Mother and Father, I've seen less and less of my little boy. _No longer._ If Mother and Father were alive, they would want me to support _Baudelaire_ and become closer with Nikolai and Satin.

All I need to do is _stay out of the way._

* * *

 **Thames Montgolia, 25**  
 **District One Male**  
May 21st, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

"You ready for this, Vince?" I challenge, tossing my armor-clad friend a quarterstaff. Glamazons and Gammas both past and present watch on from the bleachers as Vince captures the weapon in both hands. Winking, he places a protective helmet over his face.

"Ready when you are," he replies with a sing-song tone, "Let's see if you _lost your luster_ over the years."

"He's a _part-time_ drama teacher, Mr. Q," yells a Glamazon. "Of course he's gone soft!"

"Hey!" I reprimand, "I'll have you know that this part-time _drama teacher was at the top of his survival and swordsmanship class!"_

Turning towards Vince, the two of us exchange a nod before having at it. Six years on from graduating _Edenthew Academy_ and I haven't lost a _godsdamned_ thing. My katana, as it punctures a pouch of red beads on Vince's leg, acts as an extension of my hands. Each strike and block is effortless, and I can't help but grin as Vince and I enter a vigorous dance of ducks, slashes, chops and parrys. It feels _good_ relive old times. The brotherhood of the _Phi Gamma Epsilon_ s, being at my social 'peak' with girls and _boys_ adoring your every move….it never goes away.

Alas, it seems the shine _hasn't_ gone away. Down to one last pouch on his chest, Vince raises his staff to block my downward strike, not anticipating my forward thrust as the blade continues its trajectory. Stepping backward, the telltale noise of beads hitting the floor only _confirms_ it.

 _That and_ that I'm _ready._

Vince sighs in defeat. "So close…yet so _far away_."

"Heh _yeah_ , if you count _two_ pouches destroyed as _'so close'_ " I jeer in reply, bowing towards our audience as their cheers come my way. "Thank you, _thank you_ , you're all _much too kind_."

Since _Drama_ doesn't have exams this semester, after cleaning up the gymnasium I elect to direct my class through memory lane. Having been established nearly one hundred years ago in honor of One's first victor, _Orchid Edenthew Academy for the Arts_ was overflowing with photos and artifacts that hung on its walls or had its own _designated room._ We elect to go to the student lounge, where I tell my students about the raucous parties and dramas of my day.

"How come they didn't choose _you_ back then, Mr. M?" Inquires a Gamma by the name of Ace.

I shrug, closing a yearbook and placing it back on its shelf. "I was one of the best, but not _the_ best, I suppose. I guess fate had other plans back then."

"Why not _this year?_ You should volunteer Mr. M!" says Laurent Robinson.

Suzie Gleason seems to agree. "Yeah, totally!"

"Heh heh heh…" I chuckle, deflecting the challenge altogether. Gesturing toward him I ask, "Why aren't _you_ volunteering, Laurent? You're one of the top percentiles."

He points to his Peacekeeper dress whites, as well as gesturing to other students who wear the same garment. "The Expeditionary Force is the life for me, Mr. M. After getting that injury last year, the drive to be one of the lucky few has left my system."

"And besides," adds Suzie, "the school is like, not allowing any young people to volunteer like, ya know, this year...somethin' about us bein' _too generic'_ or whatever."

I glance at some of the members of the class of 2163. One by one I take in their faces of reluctant acceptance. Today was their last full day of classes, and the students are feeling nostalgic. I know I am. The nineteen and twenty-year-olds who are graduating and graduat _ed_ were hoping for one last hurrah, given the quell twist this year. The reaction to the victors barring them from volunteering this year was…muted. Someone from the outside looking in would think that Careers not chosen for their selected year would be 'useless' – without purpose. But as Laurent said, Edenthew Academy isn't _all_ about the Games. After wallowing in self-pity for a couple of weeks most of us brush ourselves off and pursuit a career in the arts or take an apprenticeship with their parents.

After a couple of years outside the system, I don't find myself being so 'accepting' of my fate anymore.

"Oh my gods, _Thames_!" screeches my sister, Bellamy, as she hurries down the steps of the lodge with her friends in tow. "You're like, _totally_ late! Daddy's been wondering where you've been!"

Smirking, I gently toss the valet the keys to my cabriolet. It's a _'50 Zip! Tracker-Jacker_ , so one hardy glance at the teen and a nod from him in reply is enough to tell him to take impeccable care of it. "You know me, fashionably late and all…" I turn to her friends now, flashing them an endearing smile. "Good evening _Bubbles_ , _Opal_."

As Bellamy rolls her eyes and crosses her arms in a huff, the O'Shea twins, like many young women I encounter, devolve into giggles and blushes as step forward and give each girl a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Hi _Thames_ ," the two trill in unison, their eyes glistening and lips pursed with bashfulness.

The O'Shea's having decided to stay behind and have a cigarette, Bellamy is left escorting me into the main lodge of the _Big Sky Resort._ Visited by One's upper crust and Capitols alike, the nearby Lone Mountain Range offer a plethora of recreational sports to partake in, scenic trails to immerse yourself in or homey and tasteful lodging for _lucrative_ business meetings. We both smile to an older colleague as we continue down the ornate halls. Keeping up appearances, I wave and wink to former schoolmates that pass me by. They too have left the Career mindset behind and embraced the high-society life.

 _"_ You can't keep _, like, blowing off_ your responsibilities to the company, Thames." Bellamy hisses, wrapping a gloved hand around the crook of my elbow. I suppress the urge to lash out at her. It's not like she knows my true feelings about our 'obligations' besides the bare minimum.

"Dad has _twenty_ other people on his board of directors, I _doubt_ I'm needed all that much."

"Well, I can't keep vouching for you when Mom and Daddy keep asking where you are!"

"Well _, excuse me_ for trying to go my own way…" I mutter.

"You're _still_ trying to get into entertainment?"

I can't help but roll my eyes. The _company_ this, the _company_ that. I follow Mom and Dad's yearnings enough. And when I try to follow through with yearnings of my own once in a while, I can't even do _that_. Sighing, Bellamy goes from deflated to chipper at the sight of the double doors in front of us. "Just _try_ and like, keep up appearances, okay? The night will be all but over soon."

Sighing, I too slip on the urbane mask for the engagement ahead. " _No promises_."

Having been to the Capitol on multiple occasions thanks to Dad's connections, the moniker his Capitolite colleagues would give our District – _"The Little Capitol" – always rang true when it came to scenes like these._ With the Lone Mountain and the evening sky serving as our backdrop, soft clinks of utensils against glass and soft conversation could be heard as District One's upper echelons wined and dined with one another. Officials, businesspeople like poor _Miss Baudelaire_ …is that _Cessna Embraer_? To top it all off, some seniors from Edenthew Academy's visual arts school sing a big band rendition of _"Fly Me To The Moon"._ I suppress the urge to frown, instead forcing a charming smile on my lips as Mom and Dad catch my eye.

" _Thames_ , there you are…!" Mom greets, waving the both of us over. In a room of slightly older folks, both Jubilee and Lucius Montgolia hold their own with their impeccable dress and demeanor. I guess being gem mining magnates in your mid forties will do that to you. Greeting mom with a kiss and father with a respectful nod – which was…somewhat reciprocated – I slide out a chair for Bellamy as we settle in. Thankfully, they waited until we were halfway done through the main course before Mom cleared her throat as she shifted her body towards me.

"So Thames, darling, how was your trip to the Capitol?" she asks. "Any work?"

Rinsing down my food with a sip of pop, I avoid Dad's gaze. "No unfortunately."

" _Good_ ," says Dad, chiming in. _Oh great._ "Maybe now he can forget his silly dream and divert his attention back to the company."

Mom frowns, Bellamy does as well. " _Lucius_ , his goals aren't _entirely_ far-fetched..."

"They _are_ far-fetched, Jubilee. Don't cut him slack." Dad retorts. "I suggest he forgets _all about this,_ while he still has his _reputation_."

"What's wrong with trying to pursuit what _I want_?" I inquire with an incredulous edge. Apparently it's a _crime_ to want to have my own aspirations. Something billed by me, not passed down via _silver genes._

"And what _do you_ 'want', Thames?" asks Dad, elbows on the table as he cups his hands and cranes his head toward me.

"Why to live _my dreams_ of course, to build _my own_ success-"

"There are plenty of _Rubys_ and _Glimmers_ and _Glistens_ that get off the train to the Capitol _every day_!" he reprimands sternly, attracting the attention of some guests. "All your _success_ is right here in the _luxury district._ The faster you understand this, the _better_."

" _Daddy_ …" Bellamy pleads, casting quick glances to her left and right before settling on him. " _Stop_ it."

"Let it go Lucius," Mom adds, turning to me once again. She always was the diffuser, but less 'open' with her views towards my pursuits. " _Thames_ darling, we _care_ for you, but your dalliances cause us great concern. Our patience is wearing thin. So, if you _genuinely_ think your dreams will kick off, I suggest you try something _now_ or give it up completely."

Sighing, I adjust my seating as the desserts begin to arrive. "Right…"

Thankfully the silence returns as we dig into tonight's dessert. I offer Bellamy a smile as she gently prods my knee with hers. She needn't worry. Little did they know I have it _all_ planned out.

* * *

 **Governor Serene Westenfluss, 49**  
 **Victor of the 66th Hunger Games** **  
** **May 24th**

* * *

"Is it drafted yet…? It's a _satellite_ campus, look at all that training opportunity for our Careers up there – mountains, streams, lakes…"

Placing the phone to my ear, I adjust the belt of my shirtwaist dress before moving to slip on my heels. "We use it often, so we might as well establish a permanent presence… _Who cares_ about what they think, that's why we have tesserae cards remember?! Just get it drafted by next week. I want the bill on my desk for assent by _December_."

Disconnecting the call, I glance upward to see my Housekeeper silently waiting.

"Governor Westenfluss," she announces with a curtsy. "Your aide, Miss Erin Stenway, here to see you."

"Let her in." I mutter. I glance up at my assistant as she enters the living room. Erin was a mousy little thing, a dark-skinned young woman in her late twenties. With beady, grey eyes, a big bouffant secured with a bow and a pink collared shirtwaist dress, that's where the ' _typical secretary'_ comparison ended. Appointed by the Ministry of Districts' Affairs in HG 98, they say that Ms. Stenway is _'the best of the best'_ , an assistant ' _fit for a Victor'_. She was a little _too fit_ if you ask me. She's a _real_ oddball, always fifty steps ahead of me. Sometimes, it's almost as if she _isn't_ here even though she's only _feet_ away – ever vigilant with a permanent grin on her face. _Whatever_ , she's reliable and lessens my workload. That's all that matters.

"Miss Westenfluss," she chirps, her voice light and pleasant as per usual. "The motorcade is ready to take you to the Hall of Justice for the Reaping Day festivities."

"Are the other towns synced to the mandatory viewing?" the Capitol introduced percentiles to the Reaping pool, higher percentile means mandatory attendance based on reaping probability.

" _Yes_ Miss Westenfluss."

"And the Justice Building is free of _pranks_ from the Edenthew kids?" Those damn hoods are getting craftier as the years go by. And to think I was _one of them_.

" _Yes_ Miss Westenfluss." She repeats. Her voice still retains its unnerving pleasantry.

I cast her one last glance before we head out the door towards the awaiting limousine. "Are you _sure_ everything is secure for this afternoon?"

" _Of course_ Miss Westenfluss, Headpeacekeeper LeMay assures you that everything should go off without a hitch."

I allow myself a sigh as we settle into the car. "Good. Let's be on our way."

Since the Governor's Mansion is only a block or two away from the Hall of Justice, the ride was a quick one. Although judging by the pack of ravenous paparazzi as we pull into the cul-de-sac, I wish the ride were a tad bit longer.

"Serene, Serene, Serene!"

In the face of flashing bulbs and raucous questions thrown my way, I plant a smile on my face as Eris and I bound up the steps towards my fellow victors. Peacekeepers in their crisp white uniforms keep the media at bay with each step.

"Governor Westenfluss, Hermes Lancaster – Capitol TV! How will One fare given the events of the past year!?"

I allow myself a small snicker. Not only did I have to deal with the murder of a Panemian president in _our District_ of all places, but a ferocious re-election campaign in conjunction with the federal one that resulted in my opponent being killed. We've been thrown off our game, leaving us nine years without a victory to our name, but plenty of close calls.

"I assure our fans in the Capitol that District One _will be_ competitive this year. The events that transpired have no bearing on this year's Games." I nod to a Peacekeeper Sergeant who with his unit begin boxing off the gaggle of press. "Enjoy the Reaping Day festivities!"

Reaching the top of the steps, I meet the closest thing to my family. Cessna Embraer who continues to file away at her nails with her Chihuahua tucked in her purse, Kaiser who smirks with his arms folded as Severa and Glisten continue to chuckle their heads off at my expense.

"She has the patience of a Snow…" Muses Kaiser. "Like I always say, if I were you, I would've leapt off the roof by now."

" _Every year_ is the same thing…I dunno how you do it." Glisten snorts, wiping a tear away. He diverts his attention to Erin who types away on her datapad. "Hey Serene's shadow, how's it going?"

As they continue to snicker, Erin glances upward, unfazed by the insult as she grins. " _Hello_ Mr. Hemingway. Good program today."

As Erin glances back down towards her datapad, the four of us exchange perplexed looks. Glancing up from her file, Cessna scowls.

"Riiiiiiiight…Can we like, go _in now_?"

The clock strikes three when I'm given the cue to take the microphone. Erin was right, we had a good program today. The adults were just as optimistic and jubilant as the teens were in any other given year. The crowds go back as far as the eye can see. At least past East Ritchson Street. After the typical speech given every year, the crowd goes wild once more as I introduce myself and the other Victors, and then our Escort, Rouge Peakes as she approaches to take the microphone. Living up to her name, she wears a red and black fringed dress and a cloche to boot. It contrasts well with her dark skin.

"Thank you, District One, for your warm welcome as per usual!" she twitters softly. "Now, if you all could pay attention to this _spanking new_ film brought to you all the way from your friends in the Capitol!"

The film was mostly the same, with former President Snow narrating from start to finish until as the screen faded to black, a _new voice_ took his place – a more _feminine_ voice.

" _That future was threatened once more,"_ Picks up President DeWynter. " _After seventy-four years of peace and prosperity, a naïve girl and her proxies whose names shall not be uttered, driven by selfish desire, plunged the nation into yet another civil war. Alas, thanks to those brave and loyal citizens who heeded their nations call, the war was won. With a renewed covenant between Capitol and Districts as one collective, Panem now enters an unprecedented century of peace and prosperity. One based on trust, understanding of the roles we all play and unwavering loyalty to the state. In all these things, The Hunger Games serves as the centerpiece. It is with them that we safeguard our past and future more than ever."_

Rouge gently claps along with the audience. "That was quite refreshing, wasn't it? Now for the moment you've all been desperately waiting for – the selection of our male and female tributes for the 100th Hunger Games and Fourth Quarter Quell. As is custom since time began, ladies first!"

As the jumbotron switches to the image of a female face Rouge grips the lever and pulls it, activating the randomizer that replaced the iconic bowls. As the screen finally slowed and finalized on one face, the crowd became awash in shocked and fervent murmurs.

"…Aurelia Baudelaire, if you could please make your way up to the stage?!"

The crowd between the late twenties and early thirties parted for the luxury goods executive. Dressed in a black wool jacket and skirt with matching heels, the doomed Aurelia reacted in a way in which no tribute from One has since the HG _single-digits_ – eyes filled with shock as she glances around for a saving grace that was nonexistent.

"Talk about insult to injury…" mutters Servera.

Glisten snorts. "Talk about riiiiii- oof!"

As Glisten nurses his foot, Cessna crosses her leg over her leg once more. "Shut _up_. That wasn't the case, right Serene? _Kaiser_? "

Ignoring their eyes, Kaiser and I continue to watch the scene in front of us. With a pained smile and a straight back she ignores the murmurs that continue to fly as she makes her way through the aisle and up the stairs. As she faces the crowd, she retains her composure, although even from this angle it looks like one word would undo her.

"And now, a handsome man to complement a beautiful woman." Smiles Rouge, ignoring the call for volunteers. And no other woman seems to do so…why? Out of shock, Intimidation? Any attempt to take her place is instantly quelled as Rouge pulls the lever and awaits a name. "Emerald Carter!"

"I volunteer!" cries a voice.

All eyes watch as the mid-twenties male's aisle part for a rather handsome man. A quintessential Dee One blond, he was dressed to the nines in a purple tailored suit with a square in his breast pocket and a flower In his lapel.

"Well, come on down young man! Wait…we're the same age…"

Caressing his ring which judging by the screen is a graduation token from Edenthew, he makes his way towards the stage with a confident swagger. That is, until a visibly pregnant nineteen-year-old halts his march.

"Thames, darling…what about our baby?!" she cries, planting her hands on his chest. "What are we going to do without you?!"

"Your baby?!" pops out another young woman, "What about our baby?! Who the hell is this, Thames?!"

A third woman joins the confrontation. "Who the hell are these _hussies_ , Thames?! I thought _I_ was the only one for you!?"

Shouldering the perplex expression everyone seems to wear on their faces, the young man shrugs. "I don't even know you guys…?"

The four share a moment of silence before the first girl removes a godsdammed _pillow_ from her midsection. Over the wave of laughter that envelops the square, I rise from off my chair, jutting a finger towards the nearest PK. "Get those numbskulls back in line!"

As the Peacekeepers prod the students back into their aisle Rouge, with it being her fifth year, takes it all in stride with a soft giggle. "It wouldn't be District One without a practical joke thrown in." she sighs, turning her attention to the young man who joins us on stage.

"Anywho, what's _your_ name, dreamboat?" purrs Rouge, tilting the microphone towards him whilst her eyes roam his form.

"Thames, Thames Montgolia." He replies, planting a kiss on her hand.

Rouge playfully waves him off. "Of _Montgolia_ – the luxury brand?"

"Indeed. I see you're wearing our _'Roaring Fifites'_ line…and may I say you look _ravishing_ in it?"

Rouge giggles, using one hand to fan away the redness from her cheeks. "So _suave_ …a _Baudelaire_ and a _Montgolia_ , what a star-studded pair we have this year." She turns to the audience at large. "Please give a round of applause for your tributes of this year's Hunger Games – Aurelia Baudelaire and Thames Montgolia!"

Turning towards Aurelia, Thames' charming persona softens a tad as he gently embraces her with a shake of the hand, a kiss on the cheek and a hug. Surely with them both being a part of One's business class, they share a slight connection. The crowd eats this up, naturally. As they shuffle towards the doors, I stare straight ahead, effectively avoiding Aurelia's gaze.

"I know him, Thames," Says Kaiser. Of course he would, he was the headmaster of the academy after all. "Great alumni, great drama teacher…"

Cessna continues to coddle her puppy. "You, Glisten and I could, like, _totally_ play off that. Y'know, with us being entertainers and whatnot?"

"I'll take Thames, while you and Glisten run backup. We'll talk deets on the train."

"You didn't answer the question Serene, _Kaiser, Cessna!"_ Severa apparently, wasn't having it as she rose out of her seat and faced us. "Why _reap_ Baudelaire?"

"Her parents tried to pull a Kane and rework the system." Explains Kaiser, "In fear of losing our status, some officials took steps they thought necessary. Mind you, I had no part in _any_ of this…other than being a fervent critic of them. You've seen the election last year, Severa, how _contentious_ it was?"

As their eyes turn to me, I continue to focus on the withdrawing crowds. "If it were up to me, I would've left her when she was down. I guess some people prefer it if she were out of the picture completely, being the last vestige and all." Sighing, I rise out of my seat, clapping my hands as I regard my colleagues.

"So, who's taking Aurelia?" I ask with a smile.

I'm _flabbergasted_ by the silence I'm met with. Cessna continues making smooch faces to her puppy, Kaiser has the boy, Glisten whistles with faux nonchalance and Severa simply shakes her head with contempt. "Out of all the potential women...you guys rig it for _her?_ "

"You can't honestly expect me to mentor her, after what happened this past year!?" I spit incredulously. The election was bitter, _extremely_ bitter. Heated debates, attack ads, the deaths…The Victors – _me_ – are the personification of _all_ her grief. " _Ugh...fine_."

"Sooo, it's you and Kaiser while me and Cessna tag along for the ride?" Glisten finalizes, adjusting his tie. "Sounds great."

"I'll tag along too I guess," Severa waves a hand. "You know, fear of missing out, and all that..."

Glisten snorts. "Yeah, _right_. I imagine Jasper would be _very sad_ if she didn't get to see yo-"

A quick jab to the stomach is enough to make Glisten double over. While the two continue to roughhouse and Kaiser and Cessna attempt to break the two idiots up, I let out a sigh I didn't realize I held. _Greaaat_ , just _great_. Then again, I've been through dances more intricate than this.

* * *

Thanks Acereader and errrrrrr Alice Kingsleighs for your tributes. I apologize in advance for "lobsided" points of view as we continue forward. On average, my words are above the threshold I set for myself.

And um, some of you *none* may recall my statment about retcons. Especially when it pertains to my Victors, a lot of it is subject to change. Although I doubt a lot of people have memorable knowledge about them. My "The Lucky Few" blog is a placeholder. Some things said here and beyond might be different from the wordpress.


	8. D2: Two Second Chancers

**_Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games_**  
 **District 2: Two Second Chancers**

* * *

 _ **Sarissa Levesque, 26**_  
 _ **District Two Female**_  
May 18th, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

"Forward, MARCH!"

 _Clack-tap, clack-tap, clack-tap, clack tap!_ With our jackboots pumping into the air and our gloved hands cutting left and right, only _years upon years_ of endless drills and the occasional baton to the stomach could make us march the way we do onto the drill hall. It was a domed building, akin to a hangar with arched windows bringing in the dying evening light. With the _Peacekeeper March Past_ booming through the armory and all eyes on us, you can't help but feel _good_.

What would feel _much_ better, however, is being selected as _tribute_.

"Eyes, RIGHT!"

With precise unison, our heads smartly snap toward the lower rafters where the bigwigs reside – the academy commandant and top brass, the _victors_ and district officials. Beyond them were spectating cadets, civilians and veterans alike. The command gives me _ample_ time to watch the eyes of the victors as they reviewed us. Madams Berglind Jonsdottir and Zenobia Rivendell give me no hints with their observant eyes…Who gives a _rebel's ass_ about what _Jason Christos_ thinks. I watch as Jasper Rankine – _Jaspy's_ – eyes dart to _me_ and then back to her front. _Interesting_.

"Chosen Company, HALT! Right, FACE!"

Our last foot to leave the ground immediately comes back down with a final and resounding _clack_ as we pivot towards the rafters, facing the audience.

 _"Parade, REST!"_

Left to right, two by two, one after the other, we move off our left foot as our jackboots slam onto the ground. By the end we stand rigid, our legs apart and our hands adjoined behind us. All eighty of us made up the _'Chosen Company'_ this year – the unit designated by brass as the group of cadets with the most potential to serve as tributes in the Games. The only difference now – given the quell twist – was the companies composition of everything from fresh graduates, instructors in the twenties and middle aged alumni who haven't given up the dream they'd lost so many years ago.

As I allow myself to rest easy, the rigidness of the march ebbed away and was now replaced with anxiety that centralized in my core. However, as the Academy's Commandant announces the presence of our eldest victor, my anxieties have eased somewhat. Madam Berglind Jonsdottir was never the type for bullshit semantics, or so I hear.

With only an intricate cane to help her about, the ninety-something year old Victor approached the microphone and scanned us with her wizened blue eyes.

"Congratulations on making it this far, ' _cadets'_ " she booms, her voice betraying her elderly mien. "…Although none of you are really cadets anymore and haven't been for _quite a while_ …" The hall breaks into a round of muted chuckling. I remain silent. _Just name the names, Jonsdottir._

"The time has come yet again to choose our male and female tribute that will represent us in the One-Hundredth Hunger Games. On top of the mock trials you completed, the faculty and the Victors also considered the stipulations around each given year. Given the special occasion _this_ year, we've concluded our choices are fit for the tribulations ahead. And so –"

My heart soars as the Commandant passes a sealed envelope from his gloved hand to Jonsdottir's wrinkled one. Again, Jaspy looks _anywhere_ but towards the company.

"Our female tribute this year's Hunger Games is… _Sarissa Levesque._ "

A breath I didn't know I held escapes my lips. The thunderous applause renders me near-lightheaded. Nodding to the Academy Sergeant-Major, I snap a crisp salute before moving ten paces beyond the formation and returning to parade rest. I don't know if it's possible, but I feel myself standing _a million times_ taller than I was seconds prior.

Me, _Sarissa Levesque_ , after being relegated to the sidelines is returned to her _rightful_ spot.

"Our male tribute for this year's Hunger Games is… _Solomon Kohli_." Glancing to my left, I watch as an oriental boy marches forward to cheers lesser than mine, but a respectable amount.

Zenobia Rivendell now takes the place of her grandmother, flicking her hair as she adjusted the microphone to her liking. The source of lustful conversation amongst the faculty _and_ cadets alike of the Academy, she was a dark-haired woman with steely grey eyes and a permanent sneer.

"Those of you not selected for this year's Hunger Games, do not fret, for Panem needs you in other capacities. Training our next generation of cadets or serving within the Districts and abroad as a Peacekeeper soldier, airman, sailor or expeditionary are noble acts in their own right."

I risk a glance from the corner of my eye towards the formation behind me. Some are lulled by the soothing words of the Seventy-Ninth Victor while others faces share the exact same hidden rage and defeat I felt nearly ten years ago. PK's can be made a _dime a dozen._ Having trained all those years only for your talents to be dashed not once, but _twice_ is the epitome of mediocrity.

 _Thank_ _Panem_ they picked the obvious choice this time around.

"As for our tributes, Sarissa Levesque and Solomon Kohli," Zenobia gestures to us with a wave of the hand, "Unlike our cousins in the outlying Districts, I believe both of you realize the immense opportunity the Capitol has graced us with. This year's Games specifically call for Two's prowess _now_ _more than ever_ and we shall deliver that prowess _tenfold_. For the exception of a few, this past decade has seen nothing but farce after farce – tributes undeserving of the tasks being a victor designates them. Let the one-hundredth year, as was the very first year with Baron Overwhill, be the year of _District Two_ as we end one era and begin with the next. We thank you for your immense courage and sacrifice. In victory or death, your actions serve for the betterment of Panem as a collective. We salute you. Now come, let us celebrate one hundred years of courage and valor with leisure."

With faculty and cadets dawning their mess dress uniforms and the civvies in their suits and gowns, we all disperse from the Drill Hall and converge on the Academy's Banquet Hall for the customary dinner in honor of the selected tributes. With soft jazz playing in the background, the evening served as a time where family and friends could see us off before Reaping Day. For obvious reasons, Mom and Dad decided to opt out of tonight's festivities. It's not like it mattered though, my students made excellent substitutes. I couldn't walk two steps without one of them clapping me on the back or hugging me.

"Congratulations Ms. Levesque Ma'am." One Cadet chirps.

"I knew it'd be you, Ms. L!" cheers another. "You're gonna kick _so much_ ass."

I swore I saw my boyfriend, Levi, approach me…I'm _one hundred percent_ sure, but I don't pay it much mind, as Jasper Rankine zips up to me with that devious grin of hers. I nearly hug her to death.

"I _knew_ you were hiding something from me, Jaspy!" I chorus, slugging her in the shoulder. Peering past her, the person who may have been Levi was nowhere to be seen. The Eighty-Eighth Victor's grin turns into a full blown smile. Since _junior cadets_ Jasper Rankine and I have been plotting out our ascensions to victordom right down to living next to each other in the Victor's Village. Ever since my accident, Jaspy has been by my side, building me back into the woman I was during my years in the Academy.

"The way you kept _fucking_ _staring_ at me, it took every fiber of my being to hold a straight face!" she teases as we break apart. We still hold hands in friendly embrace, however. " _Congratulations_ , 'Rissa. How does it feel?"

From the time I was selected I was given the _all-star treatment –_ photos with the Commandant, Governor and councilpersons, dozens upon dozens of people _shaking_ my hand and _singing_ my praises. It felt _great_. The only thing that I _dislike_ is the fact that this should've happened _years ago_ …maybe it was fate that the injury barred me my chance then, and granted me the opportunity _now._

We carry our conversation outside the banquet hall, strolling through the concrete pavilion of Overwhill's campus. Thank the gods we have shawls, despite it being May the cold air from the Nut brings on a calm breeze. Regardless, it was quite beautiful out. As we strolled, the moon and the lavender evening sky return off the pavilion's reflecting pools.

"It feels _elating_ , Jaspy. I _finally_ get to do what I trained all my life for."

She nods, "I pushed for you since the beginning Rissa I swear. It makes for the _perfect_ redemption story. And besides, Di would've wanted this too."

In unison, we both glance toward the 'Honor Wall'. A mural portraying hundreds of Careers rallying under Two's banner above it, the Wall was host to hundreds of names in dedication to those who fell during the Games. Careers who fought and died in the Second Rebellion are also labeled. Somewhere on this wall was our tremendous friend _Diana Knauss._ I don't have a mind to look for her specifically. Where I was unable to volunteer, it was her who took up the mantle.

"She did pretty good." sulks Jasper, caressing the wall with a sigh. "Too bad it was a laboratory – a Three's _wet dream_."

"'Pretty good' _isn't_ good enough." I reply, taking a seat on a bench.

"Yeah, but we oughta give them props…I've scanned the wall before. Not _one_ of them placed before the final ten. I guess we can't win 'em all…"

I sigh and mutter in agreement, not wanting to sour the mood. It seems Jaspy noticed, nodding before staring off into space. Breaking our slight silence, I nod off toward the hall where my male partner happens to be talking to friends of his.

"What's the story with…Solomon? That's his name, right?"

"Solomon Kohli." Jasper replies with a deflated tone. "The son to a _Reb family_ of all things. You can thank _Christos_ for the choice. I guess they were hoping for a curve ball story when we hit the Capitol, a Rebel descendant seeing the error of his ways…so on and so forth."

I can't help but scoff. I suppose if Kohli is _here_ , then the traitorous blood in him isn't all that poignant. Then again, it's not like I'm a ' _For Capitol and Country'_ gal myself. They provided an opportunity, and I just want to _take_ it.

A couple of hours later I find myself at my family home, driven in Jasper's _Zip_ Starfire – the _current year_ model at that. Judging by the lack of lighting, Mom and Dad must've retired for the evening. Saying goodbye as Jaspy honks her horn and pulls off, I make my way up the steps and inside.

 _Meow!_ "Oh well, _hello Dax._ " I greet, clapping my hands as the Panemian Curl pounces into my waiting arms. " _Guess what_ , mommy got chosen as tribute this year. We're moving on up."

"Moving on up to what, exactly?" interjects Dad from the living room "Certain _death_?"

Sighing, I place Dax on the floor and step into the living room. Bathed in the dim lamplight situated on the tea table sat Mom and Dad with worrisome looks etched on their faces.

"So you've heard the news, I take it?" I say casually, posting up against the open entryway. "I think we're past the age of _'waiting up for Rissa'_ , heh heh."

Mom gestures to my communicuff. "You've left your communicuff here, Levi and some friends were messaging you nonstop."

"Levi…" I muse, thinking about my _boyfriend_ of almost two years. I could've sworn I saw him at the ceremony banquet. I guess I was too busy…like I have been for the past _three_ months preparing for this very night. Mom's comment reminds me that we may need to call it quits between him and me.

"Listen, Larissa…" Father pleads, a deep sigh escaping his lips. "Can't you just call this off, give the position to someone else?"

I suppress a groan. Whatever happened to my father of the photos that lined these very walls? The fearless Peacekeeper who flushed the Rebs out from here to _Thirteen_? "I'm too far gone to have any second thoughts. I'm doing this for _me_ , no one else."

"You got injured tremendously the first time you tried, doesn't that _tell you_ anything!?" reasons Mom.

I shake my head. "Maybe because it wasn't my time, maybe _now_ is." Turning, I scoop up Dax once more before craning my head back to them. "I think we should all go to bed. Tomorrow we could spend the day together, tie up loose ends, what do you think?"

I don't allow them the time to answer, instead offering them a genuine "Good night" before heading off to my room.

* * *

 _ **Solomon Kohli, 20**_  
 _ **District Two Male**_  
May 20th, 2163 (100 HG)

* * *

The day starts with an alarm. An alarm that I'm quick to pound into oblivion until the beeps cease entirely. As per every morning, I find myself rolling back onto bed and gathering my thoughts before starting my day.

 _Well, I have seventy-two hours of freedom before the big day._ Mise well make the most of those hours.

And so begins the morning routine, which begins with setting out my clothing for the day – a brown gabardine jacket and black slacks with a white undershirt. Even as I go through the essentials to _anyone's_ day, I can't help but feel ' _hollow'_. Are these the last days I'll ever get up in my own bed or get a glimpse of my own room?

"Ah, _there's_ our volunteer." breathes Mom as she catches me waltzing down the stairs and into our modest living room. Watching the morning national news with Chad Blakely, a pile of exams lays on the coffee table before her alongside a customary cup of coffee. She's a regular public school teacher, tending to non-cadet students like my sister Arminda, who sits by the living room table. In a District like Two, attending a regular public school is often looked down upon by academy cadets and a general population in _which everyone and their grandma_ has served in the Peacekeeping Force or trained for a shot in the Games.

Then again, both Mom and Arminda are probably smarter than most cadets _combined_.

"Morning Mom," I greet, my eyes drifting towards the coffee table. As I notice an older photo of her and me in a loving embrace, I awkwardly kiss her on the forehead. I don't think in all my twenty years of living I've _ever_ done that before. It was always _Mom_ that did…Judging by the recent circumstances, at least I can _say_ I did.

"Where's Dad?"

"Another day, another dollar at the mines."

"Ah."

"There some pancakes on the table for breakfast à la your father. Arminda has already helped herself."

"That sounds nice." Making my way over to the dining room table, I watch as Arminda diligently knits away at _yet another_ crochet project. You'd think she were from District 8, how good she was at making sweaters, hats and other things.

"Good morning, _muttface_ ," I greet without a hint of maliciousness in my tone.

She glares at me. "Good morning, silent _douchebag_."

Behind us, the shuffling of paper can be heard. " _Arminda…"_

 _"Soorry,_ mother _!"_ She turns to me now, glaring as I simper away. " _Shut up."_

Getting a plate, I begin piling it with pancakes before applying a modest amount of syrup. "How were your exams this week?"

"They've been good, thank you very much. Arithmetic and science went _especially_ swimmingly." Arminda beams with a smug grin. "I hope I score over ninety-five, so I maintain my average or even _boost_ it. I'm neck and neck with that _stupid_ Boudicca Keckner for our grades honor roll."

"Yep," I say between forkfuls of pancake. "It's confirmed. You're a grade-A _egghead._ "

"And _you're_ a grade-A _ass_ …" In unison, Arminda and I watch as Mom's head craned backward. She never was the one for profanity, something my supposedly goody-two-shoe sister engages in regularly. "… _istive_ and supporting brother who I would never cuss out."

"Gee, thanks Arminda – _argh, shit_!" my free hand quickly rushes to nurse my shin. It was Arminda's turn to smile in triumph now. That was the extent of our quips to one another, as we fall into a deep silence whilst we ate. On occasion, I would catch either Mom or Arminda stealing a worried glance at me before retreating back to their notes or their breakfast. The mutt in the room was not to be addressed I suppose, not _yet_ at least.

"Well…" begins my sister, moving from the table. "I might as well go to the library and get some studying in.

"And I'll join ya." I add, collecting the plates and placing them in the sink. "I might as well tie up some loose ends."

Arminda glances at me for a moment before nodding. "Sure thing, Sol."

I turn to Mom. "Mom, do you mind if we took your car?"

"I was planning to go into town as well, but I suppose I could carpool with Artemis next door."

With the keys to Mom's modest _PMC Travelall_ and the day just beginning, we were on our way out the door. And with little time until the big day, it wouldn't hurt to take in the District before my journey to the Capitol.

Our part of Two, _Falcon,_ was a bustling neighborhood. It's newly made bungalows and two-storeys contrasting heavily with the concrete uniformity of the District Centre. With children playing on their front lawns and old-timers deep in conversion, it wouldn't be a District Two neighborhood without the _national flag_ hanging off every front porch. Its only thanks to Mom's loyalist background and Dad's attempt to clear his family name that our neighbors haven't run us out of town and into the desolate quarry villages in the outer fringes of the District like they did other rebellious families.

The ride into town isn't too long. Within half an hour's time, were parked in the back-in angle lot of the commercial district and off our separate ways. As I walked about town, the news about my selection for male tribute has spread like wildfire it seems, judging by the way Arminda's gaggle of friends to the random passerby glance at me. Most regard me with respect, some with jealousy.

As I enter _Overwhill's General Store,_ welcome bell ringing overhead _,_ Ms. Dorothea Overwhill's creased mug lights up with glee at the sight of her old ward. She was a petite lady, dark-skinned, grey updo with a slight hunch which she equalizes with a cane. You'd think that due to her last name, she'd be off living with the other bigwigs of the district. But no, she runs this small general store with her brood of grandchildren. She takes after her relative – Panem's first victor _Baron Overwhill_ – a _'Victor of the People'._

"Sol, my boy!" she greets, smiling as she scurries from behind the counter and embraces me with a hug and kiss on the forehead. Donovan and Daria Overwhill, clad in Peacekeeper armor, poke their heads out from one of the aisles.

"Hey Sol how are ya buddy, long time no see!" Daria greets.

I wave towards them. "Hey guys. Just doing your rounds around the neighborhood?"

"You know it." Replies Donovan. "Say…we need to go rock climbing again. Maybe in a day or two, I'll give you a call."

"Yeah, we can give you some pointers before the big day." Daria winks.

"Sounds _great_ , I could use the extra company." I reply.

Smiling at our conversation, Ms. Overwhill's eyes shift to me now. "So what brings you back here, darlin'?"

"Oh you know…just feeling sentimental is all." I say, casually placing my hands in my pockets.

"Ah yes…" she muses. "I remember when you were about _this_ tall, a _mischievous little one_ you were. Now look at cha', about to do our district proud. I'm going to miss your helping hands when you're away."

"I'll miss helping you out too." When I was passed over the first time, there was only oh so much a cadet could do once they graduated besides being deployed hundreds of miles away from home. Ms. Overwhill's been very good to me, giving me something else to do besides being a goose-stepping drone.

After leaving Ms. Dorothea's store, my pockets heavier with my 'final' paycheck given to me, I set off down Main Street to find Arminda. That is, until I bump into the druggists' daughter, Ulpia Albright. Immediately my heart skips a beat and my breath hitches. Friends since junior year at the Academy, Ulpia was what many called 'Brainy Careers' for obvious reasons. We were close...but not too close, what, with her shyness and my...'hidden messages'.

"Hello Sol."

"H-hello, Ulpia," I stammer, swallowing in an attempt to gain composure. I glance at her powder blue dress. "You look amazing. How's college going?"

" _Thanks_ , college is going well. I plan on applying to the hospital after I graduate. On top of my apprenticeship with my dad, I should be a shoe in." she replies with a smile. She wiggles a finger at me "Enough about me though…I heard you made the male tribute spot? How are you feeling?"

"It's only been a day and half the district already knows…" I say dryly with an eye roll. "I feel good. I'm _ready_."

Ulpia's eyes furrow, as if confused by my answer as she smirks. "You're an enigma, Kohli. You know that?"

Chuckling, I open my mouth to answer her, only to see my sister in conversation with an old 'adversary' of mine. Clutching her books to her chest, judging by the annoyed expressions she and her friends wear on their faces, they weren't enjoying it.

"Why don't you go take a hike?"

"Now now, that's no way to talk to a _Peacekeeper_ now is it?"

"More like a _cadet officer."_

 _"_ Ah, she's brainy _and_ mouthy…what an exciting combination."

"What's going on, Chad?" Me and Chad Munsinger have never gotten along. Molded like every other blond-haired lunk the Academy has churned out, he never got used to running second fiddle to me during the tribute trials. One final spar between us during sophomore year knocked him out of the running for the male tribute slot for HG 98. He's been inconsolable ever since.

Upon first glance, Chad seemed startled at my presence. That expression would morph into one of annoyance as he takes one step toward me. "What's it to you, Kohli?"

I gently push Arminda to the side. "Anything that involves my sister is _'to me'_ , Munsinger."

One of his idiot friends places a hand on his chest. "Easy Chad, he's the male tribute this year."

Chad guffaws, licking his lips. "Is that so? What a mixed blessing. On one hand, our victors made a shitty choice wasting the slot on you. On the other hand, maybe you'll crash and burn."

With a smile, I shrug. _Now is a good time as ever to let it out._ "Well, Munsinger, just in case I don't see you again-"

He never anticipates my fist connecting with his jaw, sending him staggering backwards. His friend tries to rush me, only for me to push him aside as Chad comes back for more. With the girls pleading for us to stop, Chad and I engage in a grapple, which ends in me sending him careening into a car. Thankfully no damage came of it, besides the alarm being triggered.

I move in for more, only for two arms – Arminda and Ulpia's – to stop me.

"Sol, _stop."_ Arminda pleads. I could see the desperation in her face. Ulpia's as well. A quick glance around the street shows me that reasonable amounts of passerby's were spectating our affair, before finally focusing on Chad, who nurses a busted lip and a steel glare.

"Let's go, Arminda." Cupping her shoulder, I escort her away before nodding towards Ulpia. "I'm sorry about that Ulpia."

The car ride was silent, apart from Arminda's insistence to listen to some music. Thankfully, she prefers the jazz of District Eleven's Barely Phillips than the highly overrated Nakashima Brothers or Gulf Boys. Only when she turned down the volume did I know she would address the mutt in the room.

"What was that all about?" she presses.

"What was what all about?" I say plainly, as if nothing were amiss.

"C'mon Sol, that guy _Chad_. I've never seen such anger from you before…"

"What happened to him was a long time coming." I spit, taking my eyes off the road for one second to glance at her. "I've been holding onto that grudge for a while. Today was the only good time to act out on those feelings."

"' _Just in case I don't see you again',_ why did you volunteer?" she asks, rubbing my forearm. "Even now, I barely even knew until you started up training again?"

My stomach hardens at the question, a feeling only reserved for everyone else but Arminda.

"Because," I breathe, my knuckles flexing against the steering wheel. "I…erm… _ergh_ , _Arminda_ , can this wait until after dinner? We've got a couple days till the big day, plenty of time to explain fully."

She continues to hold her gaze toward me for a moment, her eyes watering a tad before sighing as she reclines in her seat.

"If you say so, Sol…"

* * *

 _ **Jasper Rankine, 25**_  
 _ **Victor of the 88th Hunger Games**_  
May 24th

* * *

Exiting my old room where I spent the night, I shuffle into the hallway. Judging by the annoying lights that shine into my eyes from this floor _and_ the third floor, alongside the room doors that are wide open, my siblings are already up. Avoiding the probable _mess_ that was the second floor washroom – as this _was_ the boys' floor - I opt to go to the third floor to freshen up.

Coming down the stairs now, their mass of utensils clattering on plates and chatter confirmed what I already knew. Walking into the dining room, I come face to face with a long table filled with my pack of siblings Amethyst and Lana, Slate, Alexis and Mason and little Oreta. Minus our eldest brother, Wade, that makes seven children of Claudia and Lucius Rankine. Old enough to be our grandparents rather than generic parents, I couldn't even begin to tell _anyone_ how they have so much energy to keep track of us let alone serve as Governor of Two and freshly-retired Peacekeeper respectively.

Amethyst points toward me, her smile stretching from cheek to cheek. "Hey look, Jasper's up!"

"Jaspy sit next to me!" Cries Alexis.

"No, no, no," rebuts Slate, patting the vacant chair next to him. "I've recently taken up the scythe, and I want Jasper to tell me how she learned how to throw it like she does."

With that, the room bursts into fervent exchange. Snow knows they wouldn't chat so amicably if Mom and Dad were around. I don't blame them though. Between the Academy, frequent trips to the Capitol and other projects, I barely see them enough as it is.

Raising my hands in surrender, I slide into the vacant chair next to my youngest sibling. "If you don't mind, my loving groupies, I'll sit next to _Oreta_."

Oreta smiles while pointing towards the space where her buck teeth should be. "Jaspy look!"

I pinch her cheeks and give them a gentle tug. "Look at that, my baby sister is growing _up big and strong_." I turn to the Chief Housekeeper who stands idle by the kitchen entryway, "What's for breakfast Mr. Comstock?"

He bows. "Today's breakfast is venison hash with eggs, fig porridge and hotcakes."

The table bursts into joyful chatter as the kitchen staff wheel out the carts of food. It doesn't take long for the table to dig in, rendering all chatter mute.

"Jaspy," asks Amethyst, glancing up from her plate. "Do you think we'll win this year?"

As every eye falls on me, I purse my lips in thought. I don't see why I would think we wouldn't. I mean, District 2 always reaches the finals but our adversaries have been a persistent bunch in recent years, like Isabella of last year's Games.

"We have good tributes this year." I console. "The chances of a Two victory are high."

"Don't we have good tributes _every_ year?" muses Mason. "I'm tired of seeing _flukes_ taking the crown."

"The Snow Islanders were pretty good? Twelve-year-old Careers, hasn't been done before!" says his twin sister Alexis. "Not to mention Dee Four and Seven and Six..."

Mason waves her off. "But they _aren't_ us!"

"Being ' _good_ ', like a _good fighter_ , is just one aspect of the Games one needs to be good at." I reply tersely. "But remember, both victor and vanquished –"

"Have an equal role to play in the unity of our nation." The table recites longingly.

"But the victors even more so, right?" questions Slate.

I send a firm nod his way. "The victors even _more so_."

* * *

 _"Ladies and Gentlemen please welcome our noble victors, Berglind Jonsdottir, Zenobia Rivendell, Jason Christos and Jasper Rankine!"_

After aiding her out of the limousine, Berglind – _Mum_ – Zenobia, Jason and I turn and greet the mass of people behind us as their thunderous applause washes over us like a wave.

"What a lovely day for Reaping Ceremony." says Mum.

"I agree," Adds Zenobia. "They really spruced the square up a bit."

I myself remain speechless, taking in the scenes before me. I've never seen Coriolanus Square _so full_ before, not even for the winter holidays or a generic Reaping Day. If we didn't already have our volunteers locked in anyone past the age of thirty would have a long walk ahead of them to reach the stage, which was located at the gate tower. We make our way up the stairs and take a seat, not before greeting our respective families. Our escort Olivia Townsend is her usual jittery self, making sure to plop a kiss on each of our cheeks before settling in herself. Olivia is all-Panemian this year it seems, her skirt suit coloured in the pattern of our nation's flag.

Moments later, the chatter among the audience is drowned out by stomping. That stomping of course was row after row of Peacekeepers marching in from the west. Dawning immaculate dress uniforms, they marched with immense precision as they carried a large banner of our nation's flag. The flag carriers break off from the main formation, marching the banner down the middle aisle towards the flag pole. As the orchestra begins to play and one of the soldiers raises our flag and tosses it into the air with a flourish, on one accord with our hands over our hearts, the square begins to sing our national anthem.

As the anthem concludes and cheers ring out, my Mother nods to Olivia who wipes a tear from her eye and quickly zips to the microphone.

"What a _lovely_ display of patriotism." She croons. "If only all of Panem could follow your superb example! Now, if you all could pay attention to the new and improved customary film brought to you all the way from the Capitol!"

The new and improved film was refreshing. I didn't think I'd ever in my life _think_ that. Judging by the engaged faces in the crowd outnumbering the impatient ones, I'm not the only one to think so.

"It's amazing how far Panem has come, isn't it?" says Olivia. The jumboscreen now cuts to a random female in the crowd. "Now, the time has come to choose our valiant tributes for the One-Hundredth Annual Hunger Games and the Fourth Quarter Quell. Today, we start with the ladies-"

"I volunteer as tribute!" cries a familiar voice. The crowd breaks into applause as Rissa makes her way out of the twenty-something's and walks down the velvet carpet toward the stage. Wearing a shift dress and flats, she was everything a Two tribute _ought_ to be – determined and ready to get down to it.

Olivia smirks. "Mmm...s _omeone_ doesn't like to waste time. What's your name?"

"Sarissa Levesque." Rissa states loudly for the square at large. A smirk appears on her face as a few cadets under her tutelage let out a series of woops.

Olivia clutches the lever of the randomizer. "Well then, Sarissa. Let's see who your male partner in crime will be… _Styx McKnight_!"

A hand juts out from the early twenty's aisle. "I volunteer!"

Wearing a black, embroided blazer and black trousers, our male volunteer makes his way onto the stage. Where Rissa had a confident air about her, Kohli was a _clear slate – a nonconformist._ I can see why Jason insisted he get another shot. Sporting only a sly smile, he exchanges nods with Rissa before joining Olivia by the microphone.

"I see you have a lot more patience than your female counterpart, Mr…."

"Kohli, _Solomon_ Kohli." He replies. "But _please_ , call me Sol."

Olivia nods. "Very casual, I _like it._ Well ladies and gentlemen, your tributes for the One-Hundredth Hunger Games, Sarissa Levesque and Solomon –Sol – Kohli!"

The applause is deafening as the two exchange handshakes and make their way into the Hall of Justice. Oddly enough, Jason, Berglind nor Zenobia said a word throughout the entire ceremony.

"So," I say aloud, "Now what?"

Zenobia rises from her throne, straightening out her dress. "After last year's… _disappointment,_ I shall leave Sarissa's mentorship to you."

I smirk. "Not that she needs it."

Mum makes a tutting noise with her mouth. " _Cockiness_ my dear, It's a trait that runs in _every_ Two's blood. Curb it to stem our odds for disappointment this year."

She's not wrong. Look what happened _last year_ with District 6. What should've been an easy win ended up an _embarrassment_.

I nod in the affirmative. "Got'cha Mum. Hey Christos, I take it you have Kohli under control?"

He nods. "Yes."

"Great…" I nod. As we make our way into the Hall of Justice, I can't help but think back to Amethysts' words. _Do you think we'll win this year?_

"Do you think we made the right choices?" I ask Mum, linking her arm with mine. When it comes to selections, she gives her blessing more than weighing in on the selections made.

"You know, your brother asked me that, back in '74." Mum sighs now, patting my hand.

I've never met him, Wade. He was killed in battle during the Rebellion. Being the second Rankine to become a Victor, the talk of similarities runs rampant always. "So I guess the comparisons are true then?"

"Very much so," Mum confirms. "When he or any other victor after me would ask the same thing, I would tell them what I told you – Besides the occasional nudge, we can only hope that the mentee applies what they learn to the finest detail."

"So it's all in their hands now? We've done all we could?" I don't like the helplessness that entails.

Mum nods. "We Two's tend to get caught up in the 'winning' portion of the Games." she says. "Although victory is the desired end, volunteers play a pivotal part of our community. Victor or van-"

"-Vanquished, all tributes have a role to play in the unity of our nation." I recite, smiling from ear to ear.

"But victory _more so,_ right?"

"This year more than ever," Mum confirms with a stern nod, "By _any_ means necessary."


	9. D3: A Rising Star and A Grifter

_A/N:_ Elim and Berry, danke.

* * *

 _ **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger**_ _ **Games**_

 _ **District 3: A Rising Star and A Grifter.**_

* * *

 _ **Maia Clear, 19**_  
 _ **District 3 Female**_  
May 9th, 2163 (100 HG)

* * *

While casually strolling over to the farthest bend of the track and watching the looks of utter shock on the other girls' faces, it made me wish I had a _camera_. Digit Banks of Yohan Fairbain Secondary School, my main competition, seems angriest of them all.

"What are _you_ doing here, Clear?" she snarls, "I thought you resigned due to measles?"

"Well," I begin, making a show of stretching for the local cameras that were shooting the event live. "Miraculously…I was _cured!_ And by ' _cured'_ , I mean I _lied_ to unnerve all of you before the big event, which begins _now_."

"You _can't_ do that," she wines. "You should be disqualified!"

"That's not what I told the Athletics Association." I rebut, watching as the rest of my relay team begin taking to the track. "I genuinely had a medical exam done recently, which limited my activity, but not to a detrimental degree as I'll show case to you today."

She says nothing, glaring at me as I shrug with faux innocence while she takes off her glasses and hands it to a spectator. In a place like District 3, it doesn't hurt to ' _maneuver'_ your competition…there's too much of it as is.

We turn our attention to the PA system as it crackles to life. "Runners, take your places!"

I shuffle backwards toward the last mark. "Good _luck_ Digit!"

She shakes her head. "You're _insufferable_."

"Silver is _just as_ good, Digit." I trill back, looking behind me to see my team in their places. From the first runner to me, we each exchange a nod. _We were ready._

Although I had the upper hand with my surprise appearance, I myself still had the pre-event jitters. Although, it isn't anywhere near as haphazard as hurdles, relay still had its risks. If Dayta, Siri or Tesla drops that baton or trips up, its _case closed._

The official raises his pistol as he says, "On your marks…Get set…"

With a _Bang!_ The first runners make their way around the opposite end of the bend. I nearly faint as Dayta almost slips as she ran the curve, but she passes it to Siri successfully who makes up ground. Siri then passes to Tesla, who nears me with a break-neck pace.

It's my turn to start running now. As I and the other fourth runners break out into a speed walk, I extend my arm backward. As I feel the metal baton slip into my hand, all bets were off. Being in the last position meant nothing to me, as within seconds Digit and I are leading the pack to the final stretch. Digit, perturbed by my ease in catching up with her, seems to be forgetting the _number one rule_ of track and field.

 _Always look forward._

With a blink of an eye, Digit was eating my dust. Within another I was stumbling to a stop past the finish line, securing first place for my team. Catching my breath would have to wait it seems, as the entire sports team mob around me with glee.

Tesla throws her arms around me and Siri's shoulders. "It looks like we've done it!"

Coach MacFarlane claps me on the shoulder. "That's yet another ' _W'_ under Perthshire's belt, _great job_ girls. Especially _you_ Maia, you really brought it home."

Aptly named after the _only_ Victor in District Three's history to win based on a healthy dose of physicality alongside his brains, _Honorius Perthshire_ , our school is infamous for focusing on both book work _and_ sports - the _latter_ more than the former. In a district in which brains are _everything,_ it's not much of a feat to be the _fastest_ or the _strongest_ , but the way we dominate the competition is almost criminal – comparable to dare I say it, a Career Pack to normal tributes.

"I'm not done quite yet, Ma'am." I smirk. I'm really not done. Relay simply wasn't enough. By mid-afternoon, I would secure a gold medal in 400m and 100m dash, gold in running long jump, gold in triple long jump and _bronze_ in javelin throw…I'm not a _Career_ , so I don't count it as a loss.

Smiling, I make a show by biting one of my medals for the gaggle of reporters following today's events. With my medals draped over my chest like a Peacekeeper and with my relay trophy in my hands, I feel like a Victor in my own local domain.

"Ms. Clear, with gold near across the board and two Districtorial records broken, to _what_ do you owe your prowess in the world of sports?"

I hum aloud, prompting spectators to chuckle lightly. Inwardly I was _conflicted_. Some could say I was _lucky_ today, not wiping out over a hurdle like many girls often do. I've come a long way from the shy girl on the team freshman year.

"I think that if you have a love for something, say a _hobby_ , and constantly _obsess_ over that hobby, it all comes naturally to you." I answer. "I've been doing this for quite some time, so it only makes sense I become a _natural_ at it."

"What about your parents? Did they have any influence in all this?" asks another Reporter.

Well, that strikes a chord. As if the universe revolves around me, I glance over the shoulder of a photographer to see Siri in loving embrace with her family as they fawn over her medallions. My Mother and Father are, obviously, _nowhere_ to be found.

Nodding, I manage to offer a smile. "Yes…if I wasn't under their guidance, I don't know _where_ I would be."

 _…_

 _"Hello, Maia?"_

"Where were you?" I deadpan.

 _"Where was I for what?"_

I suppress the urge to scream down the line. "My track meet finals were today. I got gold across the board, two records broken and a bronze in _javelins_ of all things."

The pause between us is heavy. She knows exactly what she did, but still tries to think up an excuse anyway. _"…I'm very sorry Maia. You know how hectic it gets here at the Hall of Justice."_

I let out a sigh. "You _promised_ you'd be there."

"We're drafting a public works bill for Zone 10!" She replies, her voice cheery in a way that screams _'Look on the bright side!'_ "Things are growing _very fast_ around here and those new buildings won't build themselves…"

So that gives you an _all-access_ pass to ignore your daughter? "Right…"

"I'm _very sorry,_ dear." Mother laments.

"Does Father even know?" I ask with a sigh, not bothering to hide my disappointment.

We dive into another pause. " _Yes, he does know, but you know about his business trip to District 5. He should be back soon although he sends his love – we send our love to you. Listen Maia, I have to go now. I don't think I'll be home today, with the bill and all…"_

"Oh."

 _"Don't you worry one bit, when your father and I return we'll celebrate!"_ she beams. _"I'll see you very soon, okay?"_

I swallow. "Yeah…" disconnecting the call, I glance around the expansive space that was our 'home'. More like a comfortable _pit stop_ than anything else.

"Well," I say aloud, "Might as well finish up my homework."

The ' _problem'_ – well, my peers would call it a problem – is that this project between Dayta, Siri, Tesla and I is basically finished, due tomorrow. At my request, they handed in their portions to me last week. Where they would call a project 'finished', I say it isn't finished enough.

Right on cue, my phone rings. Looking at the ID, it's Dayta.

I pick up. " _See, I knew you'd be up."_ She begins, not even allowing me to say hello.

"I'm almost finished. Everything needs to be perfect as can be to maintain our averages, you know this." I reply, continuing to scan the _Panempedia_ article on the Second Rebellion I was reading prior.

 _"We've been finished for over a week." She sighs. "Do you even know what time it is, you dodo? I don't know how you function at this ungodly hour."_

I glance at my clock and blue _1:55 PM_ glaring at me from my bedside. "I've been up later than this. Besides, after track, I'll be out like a light as soon as I touch the sheets."

 _"Oookay, missy. If I trust anyone with grades, it'd be you. I'll catch you later."_

…

After leaving the orientation session in the auditorium – delivered by a rather peculiar man who I'm sure had _nothing_ to do with the University of Panem – myself and some students stop off by the Honor Wall as Coach MacFarlane finishes hanging up some new additions. Glancing upward, I see a still photograph of myself biting onto one of my medals.

 _Honorius Perthshire S.S Female Athlete of the Year (2162-63)_

 _Maia Clear_

Stepping off the ladder, Coach MacFarlane places her hands on her hips. "Yep, there ya go. How does it feel to be hung, Clear?"

I grin. "It feels _good_ , Coach MacFarlane."

After admiring my photo, I've decided to head down to the student lounge and unwind seeing as I have a spare period and all potential book work done for the afternoon periods. The lounge itself was pretty nice, being as large as two classrooms and filled with nifty amenities to keep you occupied such as billiards, computers, a TV and even a tiny kitchenette. Restricted to Grades 12 and 13, I pity the freshmen nosebleeds who continue to peer into the double doors hoping that _they_ one day can come in and indulge. I settle down at a table and proceed to dabble in a little artistry – the drawing of a park. I'm no _Michelangelo_ as this is a budding talent, something to diversify my interests.

"Psst, hey Maia," greets Siri, "That was some weird orientation, wasn't it?"

"Hello Siri," I reply. "And yes…that man must be very crafty to have pulled that off."

"Do you think they'll accept you, the university?" asks Siri. "The _actual_ recruiter said they'd begin rolling out acceptance letters _today_."

"Hopefully." I say, I jostle my head from side to side. They'd better accept me. I didn't join all these clubs and amass all these awards and honors for _nothing_.

"Say…" she begins, opening her messenger bag and retrieving a textbook. "We have exams next week. I have them all down pat except this one concept in advanced functions. Could you help me?"

"What are you getting in the class right now?"

"About a seventy-seven percent?" She replies.

I raise an eyebrow. "You do recall what happened with Indira Khan and Maggie Chen, right?"

She returns my expression. "Are you saying you'd screw me over so hard that I would have to _gut_ you with _scissors_?"

If it - _her mark_ \- were anywhere near the upper nineties I would have half a mind to give her a _partial_ answer for _partial_ marks. In a world where there are too many brains and so few positions, I can't be bothered to worry about _one more_ member of the competition. Perthshire, filled to the brim with the offspring of cutthroat politicians and businesspeople requires you to think for yourself first and foremost. Siri isn't competition, so I shall _help_.

"No…" I say, shaking my head with a soft giggle. "I would _never_. Open up the textbook and show me where Professor Clear can help you."

…

When I open the door to our house, I wasn't expecting Mother and Father to be home at the same time let alone both of them smiling from ear to ear.

"Hello Mother, Father," I greet. "Why the smiles?"

Wordlessly, Father tosses a white object into the air. I catch it. It's an envelope – _The University of Panem Capitol Campus._ As soon as it enters my hands I'm quick to devour the exterior and read its contents.

"Well darling?" yearns Mother. "What is it?"

I don't think I've ever smiled so brightly in my nineteen years of living. "It _appears_ I'm going to the _Capitol_ soon."

* * *

 ** _Tobias Ledger, 63_**  
 ** _District 3 Male_ **  
May 10th, 2163 (100 HG)

* * *

It feels weird to return back to the old stomping grounds once again.

Entering the foyer of Honorius Perthshire Secondary, I hold the door for a pair of faculty, exchanging the customary tipping of the hat before taking in the school in its entirety. After all these years, besides some changes here and there, the school was still the same. Due to copious amounts of studying and remediation the children still look wizened beyond their years, that hadn't changed. Thankfully the office is still where it is. Walking in, I make my way towards the front counter where a dish of a gal with big hair and horn-rimmed glasses typed away on a holopad. As we lock eyes, her lips twitch into a pleasant smile.

"Good morning sir! You must be Professor Septimus Fynch."

"Hello young lady," I purr, my Capitol accent kicking in. I flash my ID towards her. "That I am, here as requested."

Glancing at her holopad, she frowns a tad. "You're quite early, Mr. Fynch."

"You know how these things can be …" I glance at her nametag, _"Gladys_ , so many schools _so little time._ "

She nods. "I can only imagine! Being the admissions officer to one of Panem's most prestigious institutions can be a little daunting."

I smile. "Shall we get to it then?"

She nods vigorously. "Of course! If you would please follow me, we got you all set up over here..."

Not soon after I find myself in the school's auditorium. At the front of the stage, I watch the eager faces of the students as they entered through the triple doors and took their seats, chatting amiably among themselves as the room gradually filled. Thankfully these were seniors I was dealing with, as they gradually simmer their conversations to a minimum while I start up the PowerPoint on the holoprojector. I look to the far end of the outermost aisle to find that there are in fact _no_ teachers present.

"Good morning, students of Perthshire! I trust you are all doing well. I am Septimus Fynch, chief indoctinato – I mean _admissions officer_ for the erm… University of Panem in the Capitol."

I go over all the basics – well as much as the _PanemNet_ had to offer on the subject. And like the good little _eggheads_ they were, they all sat and ingested the content from start to finish. Finishing the final slide, I click off the projector.

"And that my friends conclude today's presentation." I cheer, clasping my hands together. "Thank you all for choosing the University of Panem. I wish you all luck in your academic futures."

With that being said, I collect my things, slip on my fedora and make my way out of the auditorium while ignoring the increasing volume of objections.

"Hello, excuse me!?" calls a feminine voice. My hand was barely on the crash bar. Shoulders drooping, I turn around and muster a smile. That sense of annoyance immediately morphs into a sense of… _thrill_. How long can we keep this going? I check my watch. _10:45…_ ten more minutes wouldn't hurt.

"Yes my dear?"

"I think you forgot to hold a questions and answers session," she says while standing up, her face scrounged in confusion. "I'd like to think that like myself, my friends here also have questions that need answering?" while glancing around, I watch as numerous students nod and mumble in agreement. Pushing my glasses in place, I return to the centre stage.

" _Of course_ , and I apologize!" I admit. "Although time is of the essence, Septimus Fynch has _plenty_ of time for District Three's premier secondary school. What's your question miss…?"

"Maia Clear." She replies. "Could you tell me about your politics and civil service degree?"

"Ahhh… we have a future politician in our midst!" I approve. "Our politics program is quite exquisite, as you might've heard. Once accepted, we teach our students the intricate art of _wringing your constituents dry!_ By the time we're done with you, you'll never want to put your hands in your own pockets _ever again!"_

Maia frowns as a smattering of laughter washes over the auditorium. "Next question please!"

"My mother told _me_ to ask _you_ what climate we could expect while in the Capitol. For you see, I have a _terrible_ immune system." A Kid snorts, adjusting his glasses.

I purse my lips. "…Don't you watch the news, youngster? _PanemNet_?"

"Yes…but I believe that a personal account is _far more accurate_ -"

"The Capitol is located near the mountains, prepare accordingly. Next question please."

"Could you tell me about your business management degree?"

"Of course, young sir. Like our political degree, a business management graduate works hand in hand with the stuffed shirts in government on how to best swindle your workers. We have amazing courses such as _"Minimum compensation 101"_ and _"How to be an insufferable grouch 101_ "!"

"What's the _lowest_ average you accept?" inquires another Kid, raising his hand hesitantly among the audible grumbling of his classmates.

"Listen kid," I deadpan, the accent all but melted away. "With the amount of studying _you guys_ do, getting accepted is the _last_ thing you need to worry about."

Some of them gasp and mutter even louder now, but I ignore it all the same. Taking 'business cards' out of my innermost breast pocket I place them onto the stage. "That's all the questions I can entertain. Thank you for considering the University of Panem, enjoy the rest of your day!"

"Mr. Fynch! How were the children?" Gladys greets as I make my way towards the front entrance.

"Absolutely marvelous," I beam, a little _too_ quickly. "I wish the District 1 and 2 kids were as well behaved as them."

"I'm glad they weren't total monsters." She approves, holding out a check. "Here is your payment for your service."

"Thank you Gladys," I gently take it from her hands, moving past her while raising my hat. "If you excuse me, I really must be going."

Making my way into the parking lot, I begin to cross paths with a man who looks like me, but _isn't_ me. Apart from the difference of suits and fedoras, we were identical right down to the skin colour and beard.

I tip my fedora towards him. "Good day, sir."

" _Erm_ …good day to you as well!" He greets, repeating my gesture albeit confusingly.

…

"Tobi, you son of a bitch…" Murphy gasps, chuckling while counting the wad of polymer bills in his hand. "You still got it!"

I caress my now clean-shaven face, chuckling as well. "I still got it, baby. I'm _two-thousand five hundred and sixty_ PD's richer." I clap him on the shoulder. "Thanks to you, my friend."

Murphy and I go way back. From being oddballs at school, to running smuggling rings during the Second Rebellion, to aiding me in odd jobs today, he's always been there. Since the War he decided to lay low, taking a job at the education ministry. That's where I got Fynch's credentials. Usually, I enjoy the thrill of going in blind, but a hit like this takes a little nuance.

Murphy raises an eyebrow. "And the _F.B.P_ just took the check, no questions asked?"

"I flashed my ID to the teller and she took it, _no questions asked_." I reply. "I doubt they wanted to accuse a _Capitol citizen_ of fraud."

"These bastards…" he snorts, "You got _all this_ dough for a short speech to some _school kids?_ You'd have to bust your ass for like… _two weeks_ in a factory 24/7 to get pay like this!"

"Yep, and it'll go a long way, trust me." Operating out of a _2148 Zip! Tracker-Jacker_ saloon, I'm free of the burdens that plague most of Three's denizens. No unnecessary debts or stress. I might indulge in the occasional halfway house or disguises but other than that, its _easy living._

"Here Murph," I say, counting five hundred bills and handing it to him. "Thanks for your help."

He grasps my hand and shakes it. His smile was as genuine as a District 1 gem. " _Hey, hey_ , anytime friend, _anytime_."

"Say hi to Cheryl for me –and the kids too."

…

Parking the Zip! in the carport, I make my way towards the front door of my niece's home and ring the doorbell. With Thaddeus dead following our defeat after the Rebellion, and Persius the last I hear a bigwig scientist in the Capitol, she's the only piece of family I have left. Usually visiting when times are a little bit tougher, this occasion is based more on sentimental grounds. She never was standoffish, putting up with me and my antics for years now.

As the door swings open, Melany Ledger doesn't even bother say hello, instead dragging me inside and shoving me onto the couch where the local news plays on the holovision. The Anchorwoman presses a hand to her earpiece as an image of the school I was at appears behind her. _"In other news today, faculty at Honorius Perthshire Secondary School were conned over two-thousand dollars in an identity theft scam."_

 _"- It was quite peculiar really,"_ says Maia Clear. " _The_ _accent, the suit, he seemed very legitimate."_

The camera cuts to still images of me entering and leaving the school, alongside the bank. " _Although there are numerous images of the man, he cannot be positively identified due to his disguise. Peacekeepers are looking for a coloured man about six foot one and two hundred and seventy-five pounds. If you have any information pertaining to this con artist, you are asked to contact your nearest PNPK unit."_

I look to Melany only to find her sending me a glare that could melt a girder. We hold each other's eyes for a moment, but _I can't_ hold it anymore. I hiss as she slugs me in the shoulder.

"Oww…c-c'mon Mel… _Hahahahahahahahah haaaah, lighten up_ a lil' bit, girl!?"

 _"Uncle Tobi,_ this isn't back in the day anymore. You can't keep doing this _shit_ ," She hisses, her voice tinged with urgency. "The PK's don't discriminate between young and old."

"And what do you suggest I do instead?" I muse, motioning around the room. "Settle down with _you_? Who would want to hire an _old crook_ like me, huh? If I had to choose working six hours a week as some _factory hand_ or living in the fast lane…I choose the _fast lane."_

"Sooner or later, you're gonna _crash_." She retorts. "With my position, you wouldn't even have to work a full-time job."

I wave her away. "Don't need charity. And besides, gotta keep these hands busy."

She breathes out an exasperated sigh. " _Whatever_ Uncle Tobi, what brings you around here anyways?"

"Oh you know…" I say, examining my fedora. "Reaping Day is coming up. With the twist being what it is, I thought I'd come around some more…"

"I'm on the same boat as well…with dad and whatnot." She frets. "But that's not all, is there?"

" _Annnd_ , I thought, maybe before the travel ban is enacted, we could go to District 7?!"

" _District 7_ ," She repeats. "Let's go on a mini-vacation to _D7_ a _week_ before the reaping?"

"Why not?" I shrug. "It's close and I got all the funds we need. It'll be great."

"You're not just saying this to try and lay low after what you just pulled right?"

An impish grin creeps onto my face. "Erm… _no?_ "

* * *

 _ **Gwendolyn Faraday, 21**_  
 _ **Victor of the 92nd Hunger Games** _  
May 24th

* * *

 _"Dearest Gwendolyn,_

 _If you're watching this holotape, chances are the coup against DeWynter did not succeed and I am no longer among the living._

 _If I didn't do what I did on Election Day, President DeWynter and her cohorts would've just devised another plot to destabilize the nation to spite me. The Gods only know what poison her spin doctors have fed to the population at large about what happened._

 _Like my father, I too believed in a Panem in which our founders envisioned – a nation of peace, order and good government fit for the last bastion of civilization. At least I can die with a decent conscience, knowing I fought for what was just._

 _Now, you might be inquiring about why you specifically received this message. Well, you're the Beetee and Wiress of your generation! Regardless of the trauma, you're articulate, ingenious and resilient. And as a reluctant 'Victor', you and I both know that what the Capitol is providing is all smoke and mirrors._

 _Because of this, I leave this burden to you and a select few others…although I imagine it'll only be a matter of time before the Capitol hunts them down. Enclosed, please find the access code to an encrypted communication line to the Australian Confederation. Now now, they aren't the boogeyman the Capitol makes them. If you take up the torch and fight for what is right, they will gladly aid._

 _This is – well, was – Archibald Kane, signing off. Keep your head up, Faraday."_

It's been approximately _one hundred and fifty-four_ days since the attempted coup d'état on the National Government by former senator Archibald Kane, son to assassinated President Agesilaus Kane. It's also been approximately _one hundred and sixty_ days in which Archibald Kane provided me with secret contingency contact codes to liaison with a rival foreign state. If caught trafficking or liaising with this power, there would be a plague on my house for a _millennia_.

Yet here I am, pacing in my laboratory in front of my computer, using a TOR to access the dark web to do just that. Why did I choose _now_ of all days to finally look at this message?!

I glance at the clock on the wall. It's approximately eleven o'clock with three hours to spare until the Reaping. Maybe it's because I'm _tired_ of _failure_ , _tired_ of shouldering the dead of an _underfed district._ Wait… _'tired of failure'?_ Well _of course_ Gwen, the Rebels lost _twice_. It's only logical I strive to be competitive with the others. Rafaela Novia said it correctly. Snow Island found their place, now it is time for Three to do the same…

Find our place as _what_ exactly, elite _murderers_?

I give my head a vigorous shake. Too much tangents, too much tangents…Opening the command screen, I type in the codes given to me. The holoscreen then transitions to the emblem of the nation in question.

"Hellao?" Grunts an accented voice on the other end, "'ho is this?"

Licking my lips, I lean in and activate the speaker. Mustering my strength, I attempt to stifle my vocal stammering that has plagued me for so long. "Foxtrot, r-romeo, echo, e-echo, d-d-delta, oscar, mike."

The screen transitions to a man sitting behind a desk fit for that of a high-ranking politician. Although he was and _wasn't_ that, as I noted his military fatigues and ruggedly handsome features. I didn't need to look at his nametag, prosthetic arm or cybernetic crimson eye to know what Capitol propaganda tells me about. I was sitting face to face with President Joseph Matthews of the Australian Confederation. The Confederation apparently has been meddling in Panem affairs since the War apparently, supplying spies, weaponry and sanctuary for refugees. Contrary to popular belief, the world is a _far bigger_ place than Panemians could imagine.

I nod. "Mister P-President."

"Bloody 'ell…" he breathes, his eyes squinting with disbelief as he takes me in. "You're Gwen Faraday, the 'Victor' with the poison gas! I never thought I'd see the day."

I manage a smile. "It seems my po-popularity extends past Panem's b-borders."

He caresses his chin. "That it certainly does. Our satellite picked up Panem's little ' _Games'_ for a while, until you destroyed 'em. What's going on over there, mate? Your foreign ministry is hush, hush. What happened during the elections? What of Senator Archibald Kane?"

"Kane ' _lost'_..." I sigh. "He forced his h-h-hand too early, attempting a c-c-coup which made DeWynter look l-legitimate. They rounded up him, most of his f-family and other ringleaders onto a ho-hoverplane to Australia I presume - exiled…although judging by your inquiry they were most likely k- _killed_."

President Matthews looked genuinely shocked. A far cry from the bumbling oaf the news portrayed him to be. "That _bitch_ …she and her ilk are a cancer on what once was a _prolific_ nation." Caressing his temples, his lamenting frown quickly transforms into an expression of optimism. "At least you're here right, to continue the good fight?"

I shrug. "Why fight?"

Matthews makes a show of cleaning his ears. "I'm sorry mate I didn't hear you right… _WHAT!?_ What do you mean, _'WHY?!_ '"

"We've lost _twi-twice_ ," I explain, reclining in my chair. "Looking at the second time, you'd think if fate were just, the Rebels would've won that ti-me. But we d-d- _didn't_. The Capitol is much more lenient now. The Games aren't as…as ' _domineering'_ as they were twenty-five years ago."

His red eye flares with what I allege is anger. "So, you're content with living under a _benevolent dictatorship_ than full-fledged _democracy?"_

I cross one leg over the other. "If full democracy were so gr-g-great…our nations wouldn't exist."

His anger morphs into a saddened expression. "You can't be so defeatist-"

My head snaps backward as the basement landing light activates.

"Gwennnn, Gwennnn," croons a familiar baby-ish and squeaky voice at the top of the basement steps. "Yuh in here or what!?"

 _Fuck!_

Quickly deactivating the screen, I swivel in my chair to watch as Three's escort and Panem's _Queen of Electro Swing_ , Doris McKenzie enters my laboratory. Giving her a look over, I was utterly astonished by her appearance. "That's erm, q-quite the l-look you have, Doris." The entirety of her skin was dyed _silver,_ with her hair, feather headband, shoes and fringed dress varying between black or white. It looks as if she came out of a _photograph_.

Doris' black lips curl into a smile, but she doesn't engage my deflection. "What were you _doin_ ' down here?" she asks, perusing through my various instruments and notes strewn about. "I dunno how ya do it, sitting down here all day…"

"N-No- _Nothing_ , I was just going over research!" I hesitate, adjusting my lab coat and smoothing down my skirt. In hindsight, judging by that wide grin she sends my way, I probably shouldn't have done that.

She nods slowly, not exactly buying what I had to offer. " _Riiiiiight_ ," Caressing her chin, she snaps her finger and juts it toward me. "You know what you need, a _boyfriend_! That should keep you rightfully _occupied_."

"Electronics are good for _that_ too." I say.

Her face lights up with shock as she frowns. "I… _yeah_ …Come on," she proceeds to drag me out of my lab and up the stairs. "We're less than an hour away from the festivities. And yes, you _have_ to show your face!"

 _So, you're content with living under a benevolent dictatorship than full-fledged democracy?_

My eyes focused solely on my datapad, I shuffle onto my throne to polite applause as the Governor recites the names of Three's Victors. We're quite content, us Threes. Being the technological hub with District 5 nipping at our heels, we have no inherent need for a plethora of beacons in the form of _Victors_. So what do we _gain_ if we were to rebel again? Nothing. What do we _lose_? _Everything._

Doris takes to the microphone to polite cheers. "Hiya, District 3! It's a pleasure to be here as your Escort for what is now the fifth year!"

 _You and I both know that what the Capitol is providing is all smoke and mirrors._

Is it really _smoke and mirrors?_ You'd think that after all the inconvenience the Rebels caused each district isn't sending twenty-four tributes _each_ every year. The Capitol knows that if they provide enough amenities to keep us placated – 'Governors' instead of 'Mayors', worker's rights, limited restrictions – we'll be content in offering up tribute every year to sate their peculiar bloodlust.

There's no appetite to fight back. It's conform or be relegated to the fringes.

"Our female tribute is Maia Clear!"

Behind me, I hear a duo gasp sharply. I don't need to turn around to know that they belonged to Sirena and Ashton Clear, both powerful local councilors. I peer upward from my datapad. Wearing a dark blue shirtwaist and a black pencil skirt, Maia appeared shocked expression upon her name being called. That sense of shock immediately turned into a blank slate as she slowly made her way up the stairs and into the arms of Doris. Due to her recent exploits, Clear was quite popular. The whispering among the crowd only fading as Doris returned to the lever.

"Any volunteers… _no?_ And now for our gentlemen!" with a grunt, Doris pulls the lever once more as the faces begin to randomize. The screen halts on the face of a middle-aged white man with glasses.

"Tobias Ledger!"

" _Bwahhahahahahahaahahahaa!"_

The cameras focus on a senior-aged man. Of a coloured complexion, he wore a bespoke suit and red fedora – a far cry from his photo. His laughter dying down, he wipes a tear from his eye, glancing directly at the camera with a wide grin on his face. Surprisingly fast for his age, Mr. Ledger makes his way through the crowds and up the steps, clapping Maia on the back whilst pumping her arm.

"Dontcha worry," Ledger says to the cameras, "Maia and I will give you guys one _helluva_ show if it's the last thing we do!"

The audience seems to find his antics funny, as it earns him a round of laughter. Maia attempts to keep up appearances, but her eyes don't reach her smile. Anyone can see that.

"Any volunteers?" inquires Doris, shrugging as she receives only silence. "Well there ya have it District 3, your tributes for the One-Hundredth Hunger Games - _Maia Clear_ and _Tobias Ledger_!"

Placing my tablet into my messenger bag, I frown as the Peacekeepers escort Maia and Mr. Ledger inside. Where District 3 is content in contributing to Panem via our industry – therefore not having an inherent need to win the Games, I _do. Year_ after _year_ with no fruits…I'm not sure how much longer I can shoulder the fault anymore.

Doris seems to notice my expression, placing a manicured hand on my shoulder. "Is my Victor that's worth _twenty Victors_ ready to get up and at 'em?" she bubbles, her smile solemn.

Awkwardly patting her hand, I return her smile albeit shakily. "I _suppose_ …"

 _You can't be so defeatist._

Well _,_ until there is gas in the proverbial tank, it'd be rather futile to keep turning the key.

* * *

A/N: This work of Fanfiction would have never been made published without the impeccable prowess of my Lenovo T400. Unfortunately, my Lenovo T400 succumbed to his lifespan late this past Sunday. He was surrounded by myself only, five minutes after coming back from downstairs to find it blue screened. It is survived by a Lenovo T410, which I just picked up today. And so:

This chapter was published In loving memory of:

 _ **Tyler's Lenovo T400 Think Vantage**_

(October 2, 2015 - February 18, 2019)

Reason Of Death: Hardware Failure.

 _~It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday~_


	10. D4: A Diligent Sailor and A,

_**A/N**_ : Thanks Abby and Willem.

* * *

 ** _Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games_**  
 **District 4: A Diligent Sailor and A Bullish Career**

* * *

 ** _Nautia Novakova, 29  
District 4 Female_**  
May 1st, 2163

* * *

As is custom, the _Obedience_ is treated to a welcoming party as we return back to port. Being out at sea in a _Kraken_ -class ballistic submarine for _two_ weeks would make _anyone_ wish for wide-open spaces. I take it upon myself to be one of the first crew to disembark the sub and make my way onto dry land.

The elaborate signs, the confetti, the crowds of cheering people, _none_ of it mattered as I made a beeline straight towards Idelia Accoune – the absolute _love_ of my life – as she does to me. We're on each other in an instant, our lips locked together in fervent embrace as we cling to one another for dear life. Knowing there was _plenty_ of time for affection later we break apart for air and take a moment to look each other over. It's been two years since she came off that hoverplane and we locked eyes. Like a new day, our love renews itself.

"Welcome back, my _sweet_ _sweet_ love." She bubbles, her deep brown eyes twinkling as she cups my cheeks.

"Gee 'lia, with a kiss like _that_ you'd think I came back from a _battle_ or something…" I jest.

She smiles, her pearly-white teeth contrasting with her dark skin. "With what lies out _there_ , you can't blame me for giving you some _extra_ loving."

"I won't argue with that logic." I shrug, earning another peck on the lips. Unfortunately, as I look over Idelia's shoulder, _some people_ aren't as happy about it as others are. A lady and her husband gawk at us as if we were Siamese twins. No words needed to be said. It was enough to make Idelia pivot on her heels and take one wide step towards them. Being as tall, even the husband was taken aback by the sudden movement.

I raise a tentative finger. "Idelia-"

"I'm _sorry_ …do the two of you have a _looking_ problem or something?" Idelia hisses while all but breaking the Gentleman's personal bubble.

"Idelia really, just –"

"Erm n-no, there's no problem at all." He warbles. The Missus keeps silent.

"Then you and your woman should _mind your own."_ Idelia snaps back, jabbing a finger into his view.

" _'Delia_ its _okay_ , just ignore them, for _me."_ I plead, placing gentle hand on her shoulder. Thankfully the crowds were preoccupied, with only a few eyes shifting towards the confrontation. Idelia turns to me now, her deep brown eyes trembling with anger before stilling. "If it weren't for _her_ , I'd risk the lashes." She huffs, shooting off a final glare before gently clasping my hand and escorting me to the lot. I make sure to turn my head and mumble an apology to the perplexed couple. They may be ignorant, but there are better ways to combat ignorance.

"How was your patrol?" She trills nonchalantly, as if nothing were amiss. My mind becomes awash with pleas in foreign languages, flames and explosions. "I'd rather not get into it right now…"

"That's alright, mi amore…you just came back." She looks me over once more, starting from my service uniform upward. Her hands then move from my cheeks to my bangs. Shaking her head, she scoffs. "Look at you, a lieutenant in the Navy – a _leader_ , yet you look so _damn_ huggable."

I can't help but laugh. With her buzzed hair and lean features supported by her matter-of-fact personality, Idelia's got the domineering look down pat. With most officers running a tight ship, I find myself naturally playing the 'nurturing' role at sea with my colleagues and on land when she and I are out and about. Someone has to be the ' _good'_ peacekeeper…like with that couple.

After a quick change of clothes brought by the _ingenious_ Idelia, we hop into our car and swing by _a_ supermarket _to_ get ingredients for tonight's dinner. It wasn't just any supermarket, however. _Conway's_ served as my saving grace during our tumultuous teen years. In regards to my sister Loire, who unloads goods off a trolley, Conway's _continues_ to be.

"Psst, Loire, hard at work I see?" I greet, tapping her shoulder. Gasping, she turns around. Her usually tired features now lit up with surprise. "Nautia, you're _back_! Hello Idelia. H-how are you, how was your 'excursion'?"

"It was as fun as you'd expect working inside a _steel tube."_ I jest, relishing in the hug she gives me. "Ups and downs abound. How are _you_ though?"

"Oh you know…just here. Another day at work, I can't complain." She smiles weakly while running a hand through her jaw-length hair. Anyone with sense would know that the answer she gave was just a front. Loire isn't exactly the _spryest_ of people, and with our history, I don't blame her for that. I catch eyes with Mr. Michal Conway himself, with stands over at produce and types away at a holopad. Leaving Idelia and Loire to converse amongst each other, I go over and greet him. With a cackle of joy, the elderly man wraps his arms around me and gently lifts me into the air.

"Look at you, home in one piece!" he booms. Tall and lean, Michal somehow still retained the stoutness of a thirty year old. He was a working man after all, running this shop with his family as his parents did before him.

"How is she, _really_?" I ask, watching as Loire laughs sheepishly to a joke Idelia makes. These past ten years have been hard on us emotionally, especially with Loire. The control exerted over us by our ' _parents'_ and their ultimate disownment still eats at her even today.

Adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, he smiles. "She's doing _great_. Just the other day, she was speaking to Idelia about pursuing _marine biology._ She wants to save up for tuition before making the plunge."

"That's _good_ …wow. As long as she's moving on with what makes her happy, _I'm happy_." I nod.

"Slowly but surely, she'll get there." He replies, shooing me away. "Now, get your stuff and I'll ring you through personally…I don't wanna imagine how the customers would react if they saw you two waltzing out all _willy-nilly_."

After gaining our ingredients and saying goodbye, we make our way home. Thanks to our jobs, we earn enough money to live in a neighbourhood of humble villas that overlook Four's central city and the Gulf of District 11. Approaching the door, we notice two pieces of mail sticking out from the box.

"What's that…?" Idelia inquired.

"The _percentiles,_ probably," I lament, retrieving them. Turning them over, the governmental seal all but confirms it as I frown. " _Yeah_ …it's the percentiles. Should we look at 'em _now_ or _after_ dinner?"

"During dinner…if we looked at them now, I doubt we'd be able to eat from tonight till Reaping Day."

Entering our home, I quickly zip over to our miniature aquarium which teems with flora and sea life procured by Idelia and me. I notice that the display seems… _brighter_ than usual. I feel Idelia's hands snake around my waist. "Thanks to that _industrious brain_ of yours, our aquarium looks fifty times better than before."

"Ah, so the LED lights _did_ work."

" _Mhm_ ," hums Idelia, as she pecks me on the cheek. " _Oh_ , the Gonzales' next door dropped off their holovision yesterday evening. They wanted you to fix it for them. It's on your workbench in the garage."

"Better me than a _repairman_ ," I snort. "At least then they could _keep_ their arm and leg."

Idelia snickers softly, her arms leaving me as she drifts away. "That can wait. You and I have _dinner_ to make." Dinner making, as per usual, is a joyful affair. With the radio playing all the latest hits, Idelia's stoic attitude melts away as the two of us twist and shimmy throughout the kitchen without a care in the world unless you count the two letters that remain on the counter, and then on the table before us as we lounge on our balcony. With our dinner eaten, neither of us have the courage open them. Instead we gaze at the lights of the district centre and the evening sky above. Using my telescope, I scan above for the stars. I see nothing of note though, although the pinkish-purple sky is good enough.

"So…your patrol was routine I take it?"

I nod. "More or less, we took a group of rookie sailors out and nuked an island for an exercise."

Being a vanguard of science, Idelia's eyes squint in annoyance. "You military types _never_ listen…How many times have we recommended _not_ conducting exercises in the Gulf yet you continue to do it anyway?" she shakes her head in disdain. "Just you _watch_ , one of these days I'm going to get a call about a giant irradiated _shark_ next."

"Mm…I think the giant irradiated _squid_ was more dangerous." I reply, recalling the months of damage that _thing_ did to the naval yard _._ It was only thanks to Idelia and her fellow biologists that we were able to ID and kill the thing. As Idelia rolls her eyes I chuckle. "Just like the squid, it's nothing a few _depth charges_ couldn't handle."

"Right…But that wasn't the _only_ thing you did, right?"

"What?"

"When I asked before, you said you'd rather not talk about it. Was there something else worth of note?"

The loving atmosphere Idelia and I usually share stalls for a moment. Shrugging her arm off of me, I put some distance between the two of us and focus my eyes towards the skyscrapers in the distance.

"A day before we arrived back, we sunk a ship…probably killed hundreds of people."

I go on to explain the order of events. It was a routine day, really. We were just finished setting a course back to port when general quarters were announced. The control room picked up an unidentified vessel in the area. Further investigation revealed it was a refugee ship, due to their Spanish transmission. They pleaded for help, citing they had women and children on board. _Obedience's_ Captain didn't care about that detail, ordering for me and my crew to load a torpedo and sink the tanker. Reluctantly, I followed the order, launching the torpedo and watching as it split the tanker in two.

"And as the speakers filled with their cries for help, the crew cheered and _laughed_ while I just watched." I mutter. "You know what the Captain called them? _Neanderthals…"_

Idelia eyes me for a moment. "How did that make you feel?"

"I wanted to _help_. District 4 speaks Spanish, look at _Snow Island_ for Panem's sake!" I bellow, waving my hands into the air. "I would've – _no_ , _wanted_ to say something, but you know how that would've gone…Think about that for a second, hundreds of men women and children, _killed_ and for what? They could've been _easily_ helped."

"I doubt the Capitol wants foreign diseases or any other threat on their doorstep." Idelia replies, her expression showing agreement, but still retaining that stoic levelheadedness she typically carries. "You're a _sailor,_ love. You should know this."

I shake my head. "I _know_ the policies, but it doesn't mean I have to _agree_ with them all the time." Gesturing to the envelopes before us I say "How about we add more negativity to the air by reading our letters?"

Shrugging, Idelia collects the envelopes. Plucking my letter from out of her hand, the both of us dig into our respective correspondence. Just as quickly, we both glance at one another from behind our papers, our eyes sharing the same dreary expression."

" _Fifty-one point three percent_ ," I report, sighing. "My relatives fought as Rebels during the First. What about you?"

" _Fifty-three point nine_ , an uncle of mine served as a _smuggler_ during the _Second_ Rebellion." She grumbles, pursing her lips. "Regardless of our service and occupations, we mean very little at the end of the day."

I find myself shrugging my shoulders in agreement while breathing out a sigh. There we have it. Our attendance on the twenty-fourth is mandatory. Just a few short years ago, I would've been elated to stand up and volunteer…and now, I don't see how people are so captivated by it anymore. I feel a welcome warmness as Idelia links her arm with mine.

"I hate to be so… _derogatory_ …" she begins.

"Don't apologize," I reply, my tone playful as I rest my head on her shoulder. "It's why I _love_ you."

That earns a peck on the temple and a playful slap to the shin. "If the odds aren't in my 'favor'," she raises our hands, showcasing the engagement ring that's fastened onto my finger. "I'd fight for this."

Smiling, I place my free hand on top of our joined hands. "I'd fight for this too…so very hard."

* * *

 ** _Warren Holt, 19  
District 4 Male_**  
May 16th, 2163 (100 HG)

* * *

"There you go…" I soothe, securing the blanket on either side of Gran as her coughing subsides. "How does that feel, Gran?"

Wetting her lips, Gran smiles softly. "That feels much bette-"

Her sentence is hampered as another coughing fit wracks her weak frame. I'm quick to retrieve the lukewarm tea I made from off the living room counter. I wait for Gran to quit dabbing her lips with a handkerchief, frowning at the flecks of blood that pepper the linen.

"Here Gran, drink this." I aid her in lifting the mug to her mouth. The relief on her face is evident as her pants become shallow breaths. For good measure, I adjust the recliner she sits on.

"Now that feels much, _much_ better." She sighs.

It's weird how sickness can destroy a person. Gran, a woman in her early seventies, now looks much older due to the ailment that afflicts her. Her cheeks are gaunt, and her shoulder length curls are now slush-grey, a far cry from its once chestnut colour you'd see in photographs that dot our home. They say its 'cancer', in her lungs. Although the money is there to at least _try_ , Gran would rather conduct her affairs on her own terms.

"Hudson should be back any moment now, Gran." I soothe while patting her thigh. "He just went out to retrieve more supplies."

She nods. "Good, _good_. I'm sure that'll be enjoyable for the _both_ of us." She smiles as I shoot her a raised eyebrow. "Don't eye me with those blues boy. I see how you two look at each other."

" _Jeepers_ Gran, even in your poor health you still retain the art of nosiness…" It's not like me and Hudson have been discreet. It's been eight months, but everything feels like it's been two years.

She lets out a weak laugh. "With the way things are, that's all one can do right now – watch as the world goes by."

Lakely enters the living room, flashing a smile towards Gran before shifting her eyes to me. In her hands was a single envelope. "The Mailman came with this letter all the way from the Capitol." She says, waving it. "Someone by the name of _Caspian Holt_ …We have family in the _Capitol_?"

As Gran's face morphs into that of slight concern, I'm quick to swipe it out of her grasp and dig in for the contents. "That would be our quote-on-quote ' _father'_." Once I deal with the outer packaging, I quickly scan the letter word for word.

"What's a stipend?" Lakely asks. "I know it has something to do with money…but,"

"It's a monthly allowance." I reply, handing the letter to Gran. Gran gives the letter a look-over before setting it aside. "Now that you're of age, you two can receive money he left for you."

"Huh, would you look at that…and here I thought he didn't give a _shit_." I trill with faux perkiness. "Maybe I should bop down to the general store, give him a ' _World's Best Dad'_ mug in return."

Gran of course, disagrees with my language judging by the glare she gives me. But after a moment, her gaze softens with a sigh. "I ought to chastise you for such a remark…but the truth is unnerving sometimes."

"I'm not intruding am I?"

Craning our heads towards the living room entryway, the oh-so handsome Hudson Highland stands idly by. I quickly find myself smiling. He was a couple months younger than I, one of the many sons of the local clinician. Although he was a high school senior, he knew the ins and outs about nursing without the piece of paper to show for it.

"No…you're not." I coo, rising up. "In fact, Lakely and I were just about to head off to school…brush up on some training."

He gestures to his equipment. "You guys go on ahead. Ms. Brookstone and I will be _just_ fine, isn't that right Ms. B?"

As Gran offers a weak smile, Lakely storms off towards the front door. As Hudson enters and I leave, we make sure to capture a quick kiss and a squeeze of the hand. Since relinquishing it to me, the use of Gran's car makes things much _much_ easier. The commute to school is usually a joyful one, with Lakely being the one who makes it so by indulging in gossip about her social circles. Never a negative Nancy, one would know she was upset by how silent she is. I adjust the rear mirror to focus in on her scowl.

"You're such a bundle of joy, you know that?" I chirp, watching as her scowl deepens. "Always energetic, _never_ upset…" Lakely doesn't take kindly to my jeering, preferring to look out the window now. "Okay, okay…seriously, what's wrong, Lakely?"

"It's all my fault, isn't it?" she laments. "Sure, every time it pops up, you or Gran are there to tell me otherwise, but when you look at it from the outside…it's kinda obvious."

I find myself sighing. It happened when I was quite young, so I'm just as blind as she is on the matter. Still, besides the photos every now and then I get these flashes of her bright smile and blonde hair. "It happens, Lakely. Our story is very common unfortunately. If Mom right here with us, she'd want you to continue being the happy-go-lucky girl you've always been. You know how much Gran says you look and act like her?"

She caresses the pendant that used to belong to Mom. "She tells me all the time…"

" _Exactly_ , and we've made it this far, right?" I grin. "So? The best thing we can do is keep on _keeping on."_

She copies my expression, her lips twitch into a small smile. "I guess you're sorta right."

"I'm _always_ right." I reply with a wink. "Now, what better way to that than blowing off some steam with a little training?"

With exams going on, the school for the most part remains deserted. That is, until we reach the gymnasium. Grand and expansive, the gym served as a community centre of sorts. They say that District 4 had a standing Career academy but due to the Rebellion it was gutted and its contents spread throughout the various schools in the District. It's here where the PE Department then hires _stellar_ students like me to aide others part time or full time for a non-student. Whether it was for entrance into the PNPK or volunteering for their shot at glory in the Hunger Games, for many students like Lakely and I, much blood, sweat and tears have been shed here.

While Lakely sets up a dummy, I check in with Anemone who sits by the bleachers a few feet away. Judging by her fervent reviewing of notes, she must've got back from an exam and is moving on to the next in typical Anemone Griffiths fashion.

"Hey Mone, your dress is absolutely _amazing_. Is it new?" I ask, caressing the material of her sundress.

Her lips quirk into a half scowl, half smile. "Are you being sarcastic? I can't tell with you anymore."

"You have _no_ faith whatsoever, I _mean_ it. My sarcasm mode is currently on ' _off'_ mode right now."

"Right…" she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Are you ready for our home economics exams tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm _totally_ ready!" I trill, shooing her question off with a casual wave of the hand. "In fact, I asked the boys in the AV Club to tape it, use it as audition footage to become a TV chef."

She shakes her head and lets out a sigh. "So much for that off mode, you're doing it again…should I send you back to District 3 for a recall?"

I chuckle. I can't help it sometimes. "Okay, okay _fine_ …I guess-"

Lakely's eyes light up with joy. "Oh my Gods, oh my Gods, _oh my Gods_!"

"What?" I muse, turning to her.

"Marissa Lynne is here! Oh and look, Milani Barassi's here too!" Bleating out a joyful squeal, Lakely points toward a blonde woman followed by a dark-haired mixed woman – two of District Four's three active Victors. The Gym noticeably hushes a tad as everyone begins to notice their presence. Everyone seems to be going about their regimens twice as hard now, as the two casually saunter about while observing.

"They're coming this way!" She cheers, shushing us while motioning to do so. " _Quick_ , act all calm-like…"

"Hello young people. What are you all up to here?" Marissa greets with a ruby-lipped smile. Milani on the other hand continues to text away on her communicuff.

"Oh you know…" I muse, gesturing to the space Lakely, Anemone and I as we lounge on the bleachers. "Just here, working hard and keeping focused."

As Anemone laughs, this earns me an incredulous gaze from Marissa and a shake of the head from Lakely. "Ha ha…Are there any potential Careers among you three?"

Mone shakes her head while Lakely excitedly raises a hand. "I was thinking about it next year!? My brother Warren, he's right here you probably already know him, he would've done it last year but our Gran is sick unfortunately."

She turns to me now. "I take it not this year either? No pressure." She asks, frowning as I give a noncommittal grunt. It's best to keep my cards to my chest for now. "Heh…What the hell happened to this District?"

Milani glances up from her cuff, playfully kneeing Marissa in the shin. "Hey, ya got me?"

"That's _beside_ the point, Barassi…" Marissa replies, shoving the younger Victor in a way that makes her slightly teeter.

I raise an eyebrow. _So the waters are still._ "No volunteers this year, Ms. L?"

She shakes her head. "Nada. With the adults content with life and you kids either not ready or wanting to be _PK's_ or _Sailors_ , it seems the Career lifestyle is a _dying_ one…" sighing, she pivots and begins

I wouldn't say it was dead _quite_ yet, Miss Lynne.

"You're _actually_ going to do it?" Hudson blurts, perplexed.

I nod, relishing in the feeling of the sea licking at my feet. After a day's worth of training, we decided to spend the evening lounging at the beach. It's good for Gran to get some fresh air, it alleviates her illness. Judging by the way she appears at ease on her lounger, it helps. Lakely and her friends are a little ways away, gathered around a bonfire.

I place my hand over his. "Yep, I'm _ready_. I should've done this _last year_ which I didn't. Now, I'm one hundred percent sure."

"Who knows what this year's crop of tributes will look like?" Hudson speculates. "I wouldn't be surprised if Two trotted out _Peacekeepers_."

"Besides say…Snow Island, One and Two, what difference would it make? And we don't even know what stipulations the other Career Districts are dealing with?" I say, gazing towards the evening sky. "For all we know, they could reap regular adults."

"Regular adults who've had previous experience…" Hudson counters warily. "Be it in the War or prior training."

"Yeah, _previous_ experience, _prior_ training…which means – they're _rusty_." I reply with a wink.

"And you're _one hundred_ percent _ready_?" he asks with an eyebrow raised.

"So ready, I booked my spot in the aisle for Reaping Day."

"Ergh, _Warren_ …" he wines, sighing as I finish up my round of laughter. "Well…If you're _ready_ , I guess you have my love and support."

We fall into a slight silence, the two of us marveling the setting sun and the gentle waves. On occasion, from the corner of my eye I can see that Hudson is getting sentimental already. He would glance at me with that I perceive is sadness and pensive thought.

"Heh, ye have little faith. With some...' _incentives'_ such as Gran getting better treatment, Lakely getting a jumpstart and if I'm lucky enough," I link arms with Hudson now. " _You_ joining _me_ in a hillside villa, I have nothing but high hopes and clear eyes."

He smiles. "I like the thought of that."

* * *

 ** _Abigail Jackson, 79  
Victor of the 36th Hunger Games_**  
May 24th

* * *

"Nana Abbie," calls a voice. "It's time to wake up."

And that I do, slowly opening my eyes to see my granddaughter Brooke hovering near my doorway. She wasn't the only thing that was hovering around me. As I sit upward and watch as she drifts in and begins unraveling the blinds to let the morning light in, the day and its connotations instantly fall onto my shoulders. I'm instantly strangled with feelings of regret, fear, failure… _guilt_. For Brooke, I put on my best face, smiling warmly as I swing my feet onto the cold tile.

"I take it you and your mother are leaving now?" I ask.

"Not quite yet." The nineteen year old says with a shake of the head. "She made breakfast and wanted you to come and eat before we did."

I nod. "You go on ahead, and I'll be ready in a jiffy."

As she nods and makes her way out, I focus my attention to four portraits placed neatly on the table located on my bedside mantle. The three smaller photos consisted of three young gentlemen who share the same green eyes, ginger hair, and prideful smirks. They all took after the largest portrait with the image of a bearded man, adorned with a necklace which held a silver band.

"Good morning Trent, Evan, Salton…my love." I bewail, studying each image before me. "Thank the gods you aren't here to see this day."

"Of all the things I've taught you, I'm glad cooking _stuck_."

Smiling, Ariel watches as I take my seat at the kitchen's island table and immediately dig into the baked flounder and eggs she cooked up. "You taught me well, mom." She replies. I hum in agreement, as one forkful is enough to confirm I've indeed taught her well. The holovision is active, switched to the news. Given what today entails, the talk about Panem's crop for the Quell is fervent. It's not only that, the talk about 'peace and prosperity' and the suppression of not one, but _two_ rebellions have been constant since last year.

"There's been talk around the docks," Ariel says, still gazing at the HV. There's a scowl on her lips and her gaze is hard as she takes a drink from her mug. "People know that this twist has a potential to blow up in their faces…all they're waiting for is a _spark_."

"I've heard things at school too," Brooke adds. "People don't think these Games will run as smoothly as _they_ think it will, and why would they?"

"Anyone with common sense would be ready to fight, kid." Ariel nods approving, turning to me. "Surely some of the other Victors have heard things as well, right mom?"

"Could you two please _settle down_ …?" I hiss. I wave off their words as if they flutter around me. "Panem knows what these _spooks_ come up with nowadays to eavesdrop on people…"

Ariel regards me with shock. "Dad, Salton, Evan and Trent would be _rolling_ in their graves-"

"Don't you say that!" I snap, pointing a finger towards her. "They made _their_ choices and I made _mine_. If we followed them, took up arms against an unbeatable enemy, our family name would be _gone_ – casted away like ashes into the sea."

"So _what_ , you like the way things are?" presses Brooke.

Ariel snorts. "She seems _complacent_ to me."

"I'm just trying to _live."_ I lament. As much as I sometimes wished I were among the purged, I was _not_. And now, I have to live with that. "And for the most part, I'm doing just fine – _we're_ doing just fine. And we should _keep it_ that way."

With that, the kitchen falls into silence and empty stares. All they need to do is crack open a book to see the evidence. How many Victors pre-rebellion are left? _Four_. The girl was just out to protect herself by any means necessary, resulting in half the nation following her into the abyss.

"Now, you two should get going." I say, gesturing to the hallway. "Here's hoping they don't hear our words and reap you guys last minute."

"I take it we have no volunteers this year?" Asks Milani while flashing a smile and waving towards the crowds as she, Marissa and I take our seats. She takes to the attention well…something her cousin tried to attain for herself back in HG 95, but unfortunately failed in doing.

"None that I am aware of…" replies Marissa, taking off her sunglasses and placing them in the neck of her blouse. She waves a casual hand to the crowds before us. "At least we have a credible pool to reap from, unlike others."

Governor Del Rio introduces Vivienne Estevez, the twin sister to Snow Island's escort Melanie, as she takes the stage to respectable applause. Where Snow Island's escort would wear one patterned outfit, Vivenne would wear the opposite – in this case a blue swimsuit with white dots.

"Hello District 4, I welcome you all to the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games and our Fourth Quarter Quell." She gushes. "Of course we have a brand new film from the Capitol! After that, we will move on to the female tributes…"

Being around for as long as I have, what Marissa and Milani see as a new issue, I see as a District 4 staple. Even during my heyday, District 4 varied between viable Career Tributes and run-of-the-mill tributes every given year. Sure, prospects were considerably more common back then but the War changed all that…and then Snow Island – our pampered little brother – usurped us for good. And for the most part, excluding Ariel and Brooke, people seem…fine.

"Our female tribute for the One Hundredth Hunger Games is Nautia Novakova!"

We focus our attention to the cameras as they pan to a young blond woman wearing a navy blue pantsuit and white blouse. Her face fills with the expression of shock, immediately turning around and finding solace with a dark skinned woman of the same age. Their foreheads pressed together, they share hushed words before Nautia hardens and makes her way toward the stage – strong and confident. My heart stills at her display, as I'm sure many viewers later on will do the same.

Marissa caresses her chin as Nautia took her place on stage. "We went to the same school…she was a Career at one point."

"And?" inquires Milani.

"I'm not sure," Marissa shrugs. "One day she just up and left the neighbourhood."

As Vivienne pulls the lever once more, the randomizer scrolls through various faces before freezing on a forty-year-old male. "Phillip Cress!"

"I volunteer!" cries a voice. The cameras capture a young lad waltzing out of the nineteen's section wearing a casual tan button-up with brown shorts with flip-flops to boot. Thankfully there's a slight overcast, as you couldn't pull off a suit most days in Four.

"Who are you my friend?" coos Vivienne, allowing the Boy to take her hand and gently pump it.

"The name's Warren Holt, Ms. E." he replies. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I'm far too young to be called Miss, but it's always good to see young men with a little charm. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for your tributes for the One Hundredth Hunger Games – Nautia Novakova and Warren Holt!"

As the crowd delivers respectable applause, a smirk creeps onto Milani's face. "Heh, and here he said he wouldn't do it. I wonder why he chose to go ahead with it."

"Beats me…but at least we have a chance with these two." Marissa sighs, turning to me now. "I take it you're not going to mentor this year, Ms. Jackson?"

"I will, actually. I'll take Ms. Novakova" I reply, watching as Nautia is escorted inside. Unlike some tributes who recklessly throw away their lives, Nautia will need help. Help that I am more than happy to give.


	11. D5: A Surgeon and A Explorer

**A/N** : Thanks LordShiro and Platrium

* * *

 _ **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games  
District 5: A Stoic Surgeon and A Stable Explorer**_

* * *

 **Tuesday Suetos, 44**  
 **District 5 Female**  
May 8th, 2163

* * *

All eyes within the lounge shoot upward, and my morning coffee is interrupted by a screech of a siren, alongside a flashing red light mounted on the lounges wall. Even my communicuff goes off, vibrating against my forearm. These things could mean nothing more than an incoming patient in need of immediate operation.

 _"Doctor Suetos, Doctor Kennedy, Doctor Jaxter, to the trauma room, STAT!"_ a voice urged over the PA system.

I can't help but suppress an eye roll. " _Yes, yes, yes_ I am on my way…As if the other _three_ modes of communication didn't work." Placing my coffee on the table, I rise out of my seat and make my way into the halls. As my flats click against the tiles, I briskly make my way towards the elevator. I take the time to readjust my white apron and roll up the sleeves of my blouse, slipping on a pair of gloves suitable for the potential job. The other components of my scrubs can wait. Just before the elevator shuts completely, Kanton's arm stops the sequence.

"Another day at work, eh Tuesday?" he smiles, running a hand through his slicked brown hair. Even as we're about to receive a trauma patient, he still manages to retain his immature persona.

"Of course Mr. Jaxter," I reply flatly, keeping my gaze ahead as the elevator begins its assent, "Another day, another pile of _meat_ that needs mending."

Even though my gaze is straight ahead, I know Kanton squirms at my attempt of humor. "Heh heh… _yeah_ , I _guess_ you can see it that way…"

The 18th floor trauma centre, practically brand new, serves as a state-of-the-art facility in which the most serve of injuries can be tended too. In District 5 of all places, where injuries can range from extreme falls to acid burns, the resources are money well spent. Leaving the elevator, my eyes immediately fit onto a young woman who mans the front desk.

"Ms. Webber I need a sitrep, _now_."

"A male of about…forty years, a maintenance worker, suffered an immense electrical shock at Octavius Steele Dam ten minutes ago." She replies while fervently scanning her datapad. "Initial reports say he's practically DOA."

My attention focuses on a pudgy man with receding hair and circular eyeglasses. "Doctor Kennedy, where is Doctor Miles?"

"Doctor Miles isn't on duty until twelve," he frowns, holding his hands up while a nurse ties his apron. "He's on his way, but I doubt he's going to make it. You're team leader. I'll attend to you."

I nod. "Good. How long until the hovercraft is on-site, Ms. Webber?"

"T-minus five minutes until the patient's arrives, Doctor Suetos." Webber replies.

Jaxter peers out from the double doors of the Trauma Room. "We're all set in here, Tuesday!"

"Alright, now we wait." I nod. It doesn't take long for the hovercraft to arrive, judging by the commotion outside in the hallway. Bursting through the double doors surrounded by medics was a hovergurney. As the gurney is pushed into the centre of the room, I thank the gods for my years of experience as if I wasn't as seasoned as I was, my breakfast would be regurgitated onto the floor.

This…'person' was disfigured beyond belief. His face took the brunt of the damage as his eyes, noise and part of his mouth was practically caved in – singed to a _crisp_. He should be alive, yet his vitals kept beeping away – albeit faintly. Even as the Paramedics read off the patients bio, most of the room continue to gawk at the man laying on the gurney. My _Gods_ , the stench even _with_ the mask is too much to bear.

"Excuse me, Doctor Suetos?" the Doer yearns with anxiousness in his voice. "We have him stable, but not long enough to stand around and wait."

"Hmph, _barely_ …" I mutter, glancing toward the Paramedic. "How many amps did this man take?"

"Mr. Cruz endured two point five amps to the cranial region." The Paramedic replies.

" _Two point five_ milliamps?!" I repeat incredulously. Even some of the other attending surgeons look on with hopeless expressions. With a sigh, I shake my head. "Doer, administer forty mgs of morphling, and then call the coroners floor. Doctor Jaxton, I'm calling it for ten o'clock. Please mark that down."

"That's _it_?!" the Doer exclaims, his voice filled with shock and confusion. "We're just gonna let him _die_?"

Kennedy gestures to the body. " _That_ doesn't look like something we can save. Sorry son."

Like a stubborn mule, the boy shakes his head once more. "We can't just _do that_ can we?"

"Someone hasn't been paying attention in school." I quip, beginning to disrobe my equipment. "Remember the _notwithstanding clause?_ Persons with too critical of an injury are to be euthanized, as they're perceived to be a burden on the system and its resources. And in this gentleman's case, it's the _best option_ we got."

Folding his arms, the Doer looks as if I had told him everything he ever knew was a lie. "…You say that as if he's just an _automaton_ made of _meat_ , as if his life were… _expendable._ "

"That's essentially what I'm saying, yes." I reply, my stoic expression unwavering. I remember being young like him, and the idealism I brought with me to practice after tossing my graduation cap into the air. Give him a couple more years and he'll understand. All eyes turn toward the Trauma Room entrance as Nurse Webber barges in.

"Doctor Suetos? Mrs. Cruz has just arrived." She says solemnly.

When I make my way through the doors to reception, I'm greeted by a petite woman with dark curly hair who I assume is Mrs. Cruz. The man that rises with her I assume is a relative of sorts. The two say nothing, but their hopeful expressions and glimmering eyes are enough to go on. Upon further inspection, I realize that Mrs. Cruz was pregnant with child. Adjusting my glasses, I give my head a firm shake.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Cruz. I'm afraid that Mr. Cruz has just expired from his wounds."

Theirs expressions morph from hopefully to distraught within an instant. "WHAT?!" she exclaims, her knees buckling. "I- just got here, h-how-"

As her breaths become shallow and her hands fall to her stomach, I still make no move to aid her. Her relative does that for me.

"Mr. Cruz' wounds were far too extensive to undergo a credible treatment to recovery." I continue, her breaths now becoming sharp whimpers. "Therefore I had him euthanized as per Capitol Law."

Her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets in disbelief. " _HUH_ , you're a _HOSPITAL_ , you didn't even _TRY_!?"

As fellow doctors begin to slowly trickle into the room and peer out from their offices, I glance down at the holoscreen of my communicuff. My expression remains stoic when I continue on with my explanation. "According to my files, Mr. Cruz has had a fair amount of time with Capitol Hydro. I imagine that compensation for your loss will be suitabl-"

My vision flashes white and my cheek flashes with a brief bout of pain.

" _MONEY_ , I don't care about your _goddamn_ _money_ , I lost my _HUSBAND_!" she shrieks, tears tumbling out of her eyes. I adjust my glasses as any wearer would do as a casual habit. "What about my _baby_ , what about my _life_ , what am I going to _do_ , I…I…!?"

Mrs. Cruz lets out a wail that resonates throughout the hall. Sure many bouts of weeping have happened here by other wives, husbands, parents and siblings, but hers are in the running to be memorable than most.

"Celia, please…you'll hurt the baby that way." The Relative consoles, although _he_ barely has it together himself. Breaking out of the trance that has captured most of the room, I ignore the gawking of my colleagues, turning towards Nurse Webber.

"Once the coroner confirms expiry, I want that body put on ice." I say mutedly, sidestepping her before making my way to the elevators. "Maybe then I can salvage what's left afterward before releasing it to the family."

"Yes Doctor Suetos, of course."

When the lounge has too many bodies in it, chatting away about irrelevant topics, my office serves as the next best thing to a quiet sanctum. Where others pile their spaces with needless knick-knacks, I choose a minimalist approach – a teak desk, pastel chairs, a sofa and some recliners. Even as I cuddle with my cat, Dr. Whiskers and unwind with a cup of coffee and a book to boot I _still_ can't get that woman's crying _out_ of my head.

 _"Doctor Suetos,"_ chimes the Receptionist _. "Your sister is here to see you?"_

 _That_ catches my attention. What does Marissa want? "Let her through, Doreen."

The door swings open to reveal a young lady. She was a splitting image of me, excluding the jaw length hair and rectangle framed glasses. I see that Capitol fashion has found itself in Five judging by her plaid flared trousers and green turtleneck sweater.

"Tuesday, why in Snow's name are you locked up in the gloomy dark?" she queries, opening the blinds to reveal the cityscape.

"What brings you here?" I deadpan, eyeing her as she wanders through the room. In the crook of her arm was a rectangular object covered in canvas paper. She kneels downward to embrace Dr. Whiskers.

"What, is it _illegal_ to visit my sister every now and then?" she retorts.

"I haven't heard any news about that… _yet."_

"Good." She smiles, eying a space of empty wall. "This should be a good spot, liven up your office a little bit – because Gods know you need it."

"Ah, so your fascination with visual art took off I see." I quip back in return, watching as she began removing the wrapping. Truth be told, she always was exceptional with art. In a country in which every citizen has a mold waiting for them, Marissa should be commended for breaking out. Unraveling the wrapping paper, she hangs the canvass and motions for me to come take a look.

"May I present to you…err well I don't exactly have a _name_ for it yet. But if I had to choose a name I'd call it…" _Klassy Kat"_ , because why not? You have Dr. Whiskers so it all works out. Do you like it?"

The portrait surely was something else. It depicted a caricature of a black cat on a baby blue background with geometric shapes – inverted triangles, half-circles and the like. For the first time in…days, I find myself cracking a small _smile_.

"Look at that, _emotion_." Marissa jeers, prodding me with her shoulder. I feel a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment wash over me having been 'caught' although personally, I feel somewhat 'elated'. "If only I had my phone out to take a photo."

"It's a remarkable piece." I say frankly, glancing down at black feline in my arms. Even Dr. Whiskers seems fascinated by the artwork.

My sister turns to me now. "Listen, I have a art show in the Capitol I was invited to…even though we don't talk too too often, maybe we can try again after I get back under a week's time?"

I push my glasses upward. "That sounds…pleasant."

She smiles, giving me a hug and Dr. Whiskers a scratch under the chin. " _Great_! Like mom and dad always say _, "Small steps"._ I'll see you in a day or two."

When she opens the door, Kanton Jaxter stood on the opposite end with his hand raised as if he were about to knock. Surprise flashes on his face, then a goofy smile and an equally as goofy laugh.

"Hey hey would you look at that, _sisters!"_ he exclaims, giving the two of us a look over. "I see beauty runs in the family?"

"Is _this_ the Kanton guy?" Marissa asks, jerking a thumb towards him.

"Ooh, so the elusive Tuesday _does_ gossip. Does she say anything good about me?"

She smirks, moving past him. "I'll leave you two to your business."

I let out a sigh. "Where's _Doreen_?"

"I think she went out for lunch." He replies, making himself comfortable by slipping onto my recliner. His demeanor shifts from that of his playful one to something much more solemn. "Erm, we prepped the body for salvage, we scheduled it for later this evening."

"That's good, what about the wife."

"Oh jeez…she's fine. Well, as fine as someone can be after their spouse dying." He shrugs. "I don't know how you do it sometimes, the 'collectivity'. If I were you, I would've cried _with her._ "

"It comes naturally with the job…or at least it should." I shrug. Inwardly, if I _could_ I would've cried with her, but I didn't and I couldn't. We all have to pass sometime, no? Some more gruesome than others.

"Say…" begins Kanton after a moment of silence. "When we get outta here I know this spot, a diner near the financial sector…I was thinking maybe I could treat you out?"

I'm about to offer my answer when the all too familiar alarm blares over the PA and my communicuff begins vibrating against my forearm.

 _"Doctor Jaxter, Doctor Suetos, Doctor Kennedy, Doctor Miles, to the trauma room STAT!"_

"You'll have to hold on for that answer, Doctor Jaxter." I say, opening the office door and closing it as we make our way towards the elevators. "We have work to do."

Another day, another walking pile of meat that needs mending.

* * *

 **Geronimo Busan, 24**  
 **District 5 Male**  
May 11th, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

Another day, another brand new location with new things and people to see and meet.

My gear for my excursion is laid out in meticulous fashion. Backpack? Check. Rations just in case? Check. Poncho? Check. Now which cameras should I bring? Action, digicam, autofocus? How about _all three_. I'll never know what type until the situation arises. My Parrot, Perry, sits obediently in his travel bag. With my hamster and ferret being nocturnal creatures, Mama shouldn't have an issue tending to them for a day or two.

"You got everything you need, Gio?" asks Mama, her eyes roaming across my inventory.

I nod. "Yep, pretty much set and ready to go."

"You take after your father so much…" she sighs, her tone laced with sadness and longing as she sat on the living room recliner. "Always wanting to keep moving, see where life would take him next."

"I imagine that he's very pleased with how I turned out, then." I reply warmly, glancing off towards the front door as the doorbell rings. I open the door to see Nina Watt staring back at me. I was frazzled for a moment. If she had her helmet on I would assume she were _any other_ Peacekeeper. But Nina wasn't just any plain old PK. Before dawning the armor, she and I were high school buddies. Being a community home brat, people's perception of her was already dimmed. But _mine_ wasn't. Being someone who grew up with a rough-and-tumble lifestyle, enlisting with the PNPK seemed like the correct choice.

"Hey hey Nina, how goes it?"

"Hey Gio, you ready to go?" she asks, smiling past me as she glances at Mama. "Hey Mrs. B how are you, long time no see."

"Well enough, Nina." Mama frowns, her eyes squinting with unease as she glances at Nina's uniform. It wasn't the standard armor you see peacekeepers on beat wearing. It was bulkier and insolated. Her helmet had hoses that linked to a respirator fastened on her breastplate. Everyone in five knows what that suit entails. "You're going to the Exclusion Zone, aren't you?"

" _Maaybe.._." I reply with faux innocence.

"You'd better be careful," she chides, watching me as I assemble my gear into a rucksack. "Next thing you know, you'll come back with a _third_ _arm_ growing out your stomach."

Retrieving a bottle of pills, I show them to her, shaking them. "That's what the Iodine's for. Besides, it's been a _century_ since the Disasters. What could possibly go wrong?"

"You say that now…" snorts Mama, perking up as Nina honks her horn outside. "Well, go on. Those students won't educate themselves, y'know."

After saying my goodbyes, Nina and I make our way across District 5 towards the eastern border wall. Amongst the swarm of peacekeepers and hovercraft milling about, a staging ground has already been set up near a convoy of MAN KATs. And judging by the kaleidoscope of colour they wear, these people must be the Capitolite students I'm escorting. In the middle of them stood my former teacher Professor Ferguson, who yearns for them to settle down and await instruction.

"Ah Gio, my _star_ pupil!" Professor Ferguson greets, waving me over. He's quick to gently throw an arm over my shoulder as the students begin to gather. "Students, this is _Geronimo Busan_ , our guide as we begin our foray into a world _long gone_."

"Please, call me _Gio_." I say, smiling at the nods and greetings sent my way. I'm shocked to see a dark skinned hand thrust toward me, clasping mine with a firm shake.

"So this is Gio Busan?" The owner of the hand muses. "The name's Icarus Gordon. Listen man, your work is _boss!_ Your thesis about _'breaking down our boundaries'_ and _'reclaiming lands lost'_ helped me a ton through these past four years. It's great to finally see you in the flesh."

I return the shake, smiling as I place a hand on his shoulder. "Icarus, the pleasure is all mines! Maybe one day, you too will be exploring and sharing your thoughts for people to read."

"See, what did I say!? We're all in good hands with Mr. Busan." Says Professor Ferguson. "If everyone is ready, please board the MAN KAT so we can begin our little journey."

With Nina and another Peacekeeper aiding us two by two we board a MAN KAT, a hulking flatbed truck. After being vehemently warned by peacekeepers in regards to do's and don'ts, the convoy was on its way, passing through the hulking steel gates into the wild. It's interesting to see the contrast between being in the wall and _outside_ of it. Where the roads within the wall are paved and neat, out here they're choked with weeds and fissures as nature is in the midst of reclaiming its territory. The same could be said for the various houses we passed. All of them were choked with plant growth. The ride is mostly silent, besides the occasional murmurs as we passed relics of a society long gone.

"My friends, the area we are about to enter is called the Exclusion Zone. Contrary to popular belief, although the Districts have wide swaths of territory, only a small percentage of it is populated. Although we are slowly spreading outward, regions like this are still toxic due to destroyed infrastructure such as nuclear power plants."

"I always hear in the news about the Capitol expanding its city limits …but since the Disasters you'd imagine that a lot of people just up and left in search of safety." Begins a Student, "Have you been inside a derelict house or building?"

The Professor is quick to hand me a speakerphone. "Please Gio, educate my aspirants! The floor is yours!"

"What's your name, friend?" I ask the Student.

"Dionysus Chambers." He replies.

I shake his hand, which he gratefully returns. "That's an amazing question. I imagine that many of you have been to vintage clothing shops and have bought knick-knacks?" I ask receiving many nods in return. "Well, where do you think vintage knick-knacks come from? Sanctioned explorers survey pre-Panem cities all the time. I've done it myself. Yes I've been in a few buildings and houses and have found things from jewelry to skeletons."

"So…expansion Panem-wide is feasible?"

"Slowly but surely, yes. As you can see here, most houses just need refurbishment and cleaning out of hazards. I'm sure most houses in the Capitol outskirts are also refurbished."

"Why all the security, Gio?" asks a female Student.

"Well…what's your name?"

"My name is Lillien." She smiles.

"Lillien, I like that name." I reply with a smile of my own. "Well Lillien, with hazards such as radiation, mutated animals and in some cases, feral humans – yes, _feral humans_ – Peacekeepers are heavily armed at all times."

"Mutated animals and feral humans?" asks another Student.

I nod. "The last feral human sighting was decades ago, although if you look to your left you can see that animals are alive and well within the region…with a few _'side affects'."_

All eyes and cameras focus on a herd of irradiated deer. Some have fleshy welts that pepper their bodies while one has two heads. With my camera in hand, I too take a couple of snapshots of the animals.

"Some of you may have hamsters at home, ferrets, fennec foxes and the like?" I ask, to the nodding of some of the students. Kneeling downward, I release Perry from the confines of his travel bag. He's quick to perch on the head of an unsuspecting student. "My red-masked parakeet here, Perry, hails from places like these. When the Disasters rocked our land, it's been noted that many zoos and private owners relinquished their animals into the wild. Some of these animals would serve as obstacles for a certain group of tributes in a very recent Hunger Games arena…"

"No way, _this_ is the place?! See, I _knew_ it looked familiar!"

"Look, there's the cornucopia!"

"Once we dismount, you may look but DO NOT touch!" reprimands Professor Ferguson, "May I remind you all we are walking on hallowed grounds and they should be treated as such!"

As the MAN KAT grinds to a halt, the students are quick to tumble out and explore the ninety-ninth cornucopia. Although the blood and bodies have been taken away, holographic markers with the faces of the fallen litter the horns radius. Where as everyone else chatter amicably about the sights before them, all I could do was gawk with a heavy heart. Even though I've been to Arenas before this, the shock never goes away.

"Hey Gio, do you mind taking our photo?" Lillien asks, gesturing with her camera. She and Dionysus stand near the marker of the District 2 male who lost to Isabella Wilkinson.

"Erm…sure, of course I can!"

Taking the camera from them, I watch as they assume the infamous position the two final tributes took as the 99th Games came to a close – Lillien clutching a knife in one hand and his shirt in the other while Dionysus tries in vain to resist her. As much as it bugs me to do this, I do it for _them_.

"Are they okay?"

I shake my head. "Meh, I don't think they're good enough. If we're gonna do this, we have to do it right. Let's get some angles going… _there you go,_ _now_ you two look like authentic tributes!"

After a series of photos which included a video in which like mannequins, the students acted out a still-portrayal of a cornucopia bloodbath, we begin settling down for lunch. The jitters of being in a previous arena haven't worn off on our party of students as they chat with their friends or venture around the perimeter, much to the detriment of the other Peacekeepers who maintain their careful watch.

"Too blurry…this one is off center…nope, nope, nope." I mutter while perusing through the various photos I took. For the sake of me and other persons of interest, these images have to be perfect. "Thankfully we're here for another day. That gives me plenty of time to capture more."

"What are you going to do with those?" asks Nina, holding out a gloved palm so Perry can eat the seeds from it.

"Some I keep personally while sometimes I write up reports for the Capitol. They pay big bucks to put these images into almanacs and compendiums." I reply, frowning as she quirks an eyebrow. " _Whaat_? I'll have you know that I have a respectable following. I even traveled with _Celosia Vale_ once."

"It's nothing _bad_ ; it's just that you sure do know a lot about this stuff." Says Nina. "Back in high school I thought it was just a typical 'favorite subject' to you but _now look_ , you're _literally_ 'doing what you love'. That's _rare_ these days."

"Oh yeah…I could learn about geography all day." I say in return. This is what I _live_ for. Panem can be one _giant fishbowl_ sometimes. While everyone is caught up in the now, they seem to forget there's a lot more to the world than their district. I gesture to the cornucopia and surrounding area. "Given where we are, I think it's safe to ask if you're exempt from this year's Reaping?"

"Yep," Nina replies, popping the 'p'. "All active duty peacekeepers are exempt from the reaping. What's your percentile?"

"About seventy-nine percent, given my father's involvement."

Nina replies with a low whistle. "Did he do anything significant?"

"Apparently he stockpiled some of the explosives used in the raid against the Octavius Steele Dam."

" _Damn_. Y'know, I'm pretty sure _my_ parents died in that…I never did inquire. Now look at me, they must be _rolling_ in their graves." Nina murmurs. "How are you feeling about your odds?"

I jostle my head to and fro. "Slightly indifferent."

Nina grunts in reply. " _Wow_ …that's a pretty laid back way of thinking. Still, even if you _were_ selected, your occupation alone could turn a few heads."

I shrug. "Sometimes, we just gotta just let the chips fall where they may…In Panem, I find there's very little room to plan ahead."

* * *

 **Piper Malveaux, 24**  
 **Victor of the 91st Hunger Games**  
May 24th

* * *

I'm 'awoken' with a kiss on my cheek and a soft caress of my head from Roland.

"Psst, Pipes, time to get up." He soothes. I was in his bed in his apartment, which is far better than being locked up inside the Victor's Village in which I was the sole occupant.

Still unmoving, I feel the weight on his side of the bed ease as he makes his way out of the room. The funny thing is I never went to sleep in the _first_ _place_. No ' _Victor'_ unless they're a complacent _sheep_ should have had a wink of proper sleep given the implications of this day, although something tells me that most of them slept _soundly_. With the thoughts of the days ahead heavy on my heart, I force myself out of bed, slip out of my nightwear, get into the shower and allow a torrent of scalding hot water to wash over me. Sitting down for breakfast even Roland seems livid, although nothing has been said between us yet. He gnashes his teeth as the talking heads on the television gush about Panem's _"One hundred years of peace and prosperity!"_.

His TV would've _broke_ if I didn't catch the remote he was about to fling at it.

"Piper, this is _fucked_ beyond belief." He says now, his knuckles white as they clutch the steering wheel. Since I'm tasked with shepherding two more tributes to their deaths and Roland being within the upper reaping percentile, we make our way towards the district centre. On our left and right, banners and flags celebrating the affair are strung up on billboards and shop windows respectively. Something tells me that If someone were to rip away the pomp and glitz, they would reveal a scared and angry population.

"You think I'm not wracking my brain with this shit on the daily?" I reply with the same strained tone. "You think I'm not tired of being browbeaten into a corner, helpless?"

"I know you're tired too Pipes…out of any of these 'Victors', at least _you_ retain your _innocence_."

" _Yeah_ , but at _what cost_ through?" I snort. I'm not exactly one of the most well-loved Victors in the Capitol's eyes _, not that it matters._ In a 'Games' in which bloodshed matters the most, I shed none of it, letting the others do that for me while I outran the hazards the Gamemakers lobbed at me. Where the average Joe sees ingenuity, the bigwigs see _rebellion_. "If I even so much as take a deep breath, the Capitol would regulate me for sure…not that it even _matters._ If President Kane were still around…maybe…maybe things would be _different_."

"You'd think that killing Kane and 'exiling' his family, all bets were off." Roland continues, running a hand through his brown hair. "Now _adults_ are on the chopping board and _no one_ bats a fucking _eye_?"

"People are _scared_ , Roland. Not to mention _complacent_." I say. "Losing two rebellions will do that."

Roland shakes his head. "Like I just said, how many knocks will we have to take to _give?_ Losing your _parents_ and all your family members certainly doesn't do it?"

Roland and I are prime examples of this, with our parents apparently joining the column of maintenance workers as they stormed Octavius Steele Dam and blew it to smithereens. Apparently their actions aren't enough fuel to kick the rest of us back into shape.

"Piper, there you are!" gushes Quinton, Five's Escort. "How come you weren't in the Village?"

I let out a soft sigh. Quinton is a nice guy, about one year my senior. From his vapid personality to his suit adorned with little thunderbolts, he's about as quintessential as an Escort can get. During my early years of 'victorhood' I would be a liar if I said he wasn't helpful. But recent events…Kane getting shot, our sham 'elections', served as a reminder that life in this country is a farce – that _nothing_ is entirely normal as long as things like these ' _Games'_ continue to persist.

"I spent the night with a friend." I reply dryly.

Quinton's eyes light up with glee…although I'm not sure if it's genuine happiness for me having a boyfriend or him having info to _fink_ to some gossip rag in the Capitol. "Oooh, you have a special friend. That's nice, spending time with someone close."

"Better them than ghosts…" I deadpan.

" _Bwahahahahaha_ girl, you're hilarious! Do me a favor and _never_ change." He chirps. He's either ignorant of my quip or ignoring it, again I can't ever get a solid read on him. When the Governor announces my name, Quinton is quick to drag me towards the doors. "Come come, here's hoping it doesn't rain…like it seems to do in this District this time of year."

I take my seat to respectable applause as I wave a casual hand towards the crowd. I make out Roland among the young adult males, and I silently hope that he doesn't join me up here. When the Governor announces Quinton's name there was no clapping to be heard, but that doesn't perturb him one bit as he prances toward the microphone and gives it a gentle tap.

"Hello District 5, welcome welcome to the One Hundredth Hunger Games and the Fourth Quarter Quell. Aren't you all excited?!" he gushes.

Quinton receives nothing but silence and the occasional cough. I try my hardest to stifle a creeping grin on my lips as a loud roar of thunder bellows in the distance. Seconds after, the pitter patter of rain falling from the sky could be heard. There you go, there's our _friggin rain_. What a welcome fixture for such a shitty day. And the crowd is feeling it too, despite the pretty banners and fluffy words.

Regardless of this, he doesn't miss a beat as a Peacekeeper holds an umbrella over his head. "Rain, rain, go away! Ugh, way to damper everyone's mood for such a triumphant day…Well, the show must go on! Let us begin with the selection of our female tribute!"

With a pull of the lever, the holographic screen scrolls over a myriad of portraits before stopping on a brown skinned woman with glasses and a stoic expression. "Our female tribute is….Tuesday Suetos!"

The camera pans towards the female forty-something's and focuses on the woman in question. Dressed in a white blouse and an equally sharp black skirt with black cat eye glasses, she screamed ' _professional'_. The mass of groans and cries of anger confirm this. Her red lips pout into a sulk as she rolls her eyes and gets accompanied to the stage by an umbrella holding Peacekeeper.

"Seriously…one of our surgeons?" mutters an Alderman from behind me. "Out of all the vagabonds in this District…"

With a deep sigh, I frown. Well _shit_ , so that's why people are upset? Even as she makes her way up the steps the people continue to protest…that is, until the shriek of a plasma gun emits over the loudspeakers. After that, the protests mute.

"Okay…onto our male tribute for the Fourth Quarter Quell!" Quinton hesitates, frowning as he pulls the lever once more. The screen fixes on an oriental boy the same age I am. _Wait_ … _Gio_? He was standing right beside Roland, wearing a black overcoat, tan slacks and a button-up shirt.

"…And our, _erm_ , male tribute so happens to be Geronimo Busan! Please, come on up young sir… _quickly_." Quinton urges.

He always was collected, even so now as he marches toward the stage with a resolute expression on his face. The last I heard, he was moving on to big things since high school. He even graduated from UofP's Capitol campus. Great, so District 5 has the potential to lose two valuable members of its community…and for _what_ \- absolutely positively _nothing._ Quinton is feeling the heat too frowning at the mass of angered faces that glare toward him.

"And…there you have it District 5. Your tributes for this year's Hunger Games and Fourth Quarter Quell-"

"THIS IS BULLSHIT!" cries a man, rushing just before the stage. A glass bottle destined for Quinton's head nearly found its mark, only for Peacekeepers to descend on the man with their batons extended. It all goes to hell from there on out. The crowd surges forward, only to be met by more Peacekeepers. The Peacekeepers on the stage are quick to descend on us, one of them holding me down and hustling me up the steps with the other VIP. The rest is a blur. Yells and cries could be heard all around, looking back a Peacekeeper fires gas into the crowd. Before I know it we're inside the Justice Building, A squad of Peacekeepers guarding the doors with their rifles drawn. The tributes are rushed up the stairs and a burst of plasmafire followed by screams can be heard from outside.

As Quinton mutters about 'District savages', I manage a grunt of surprise. So people _do_ have what it takes to fight for what's right _one more time_. And if people here are pissed, then surely other Districts are pissed too…maybe even other _tributes_.

My attention is shifted to my phone which vibrates without pause. Glancing at it, the home screen showcasing Roland and I cheek-to-cheek turns pitch black. Two green words appear on my screen.

 _Hi Piper._

I still have use of my keyboard. _Who is this?_

 _Who do you know that has the know-how to hack into a Smartphone?_

Gwen. _What's wrong?_

 _I've come across…something._

 _What something is that?_

 _See you soon._ With that, the home screen returns to normal. What more needed to be said. It's not every day a genius hacks your phone to deliver news.

So, maybe there _are_ some wolves among the sheep _after all._


	12. D6: A Quack and A Shrink

_**A/N: Thanks Midnight and Haiden  
Excuse Isabella's tics.  
The piece below is inspired by Allan Ginsberg's "America"**_

* * *

 _ **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **District 6: A Wily Quack and a Discerning Shrink**_

* * *

 _ **Zahira Kazimirova, 33**_  
 _ **District 6 Female**_  
May 18th, 2163

* * *

 _"Cara Killgalen, famed District 6 journalist and panelist, was found dead in her apartment this morning of an apparent drug overdose at age forty-five…"_

Dad shakes his head towards the holovision as Blakely delivers the mid-day news. He, Mom and I have been running a tally on how frequent they report on news such as this. Personally, I'm shocked they even allow news like this to air so brazenly. Anyone with a little common sense should know that the events of the past year were not a coincidence. Unfortunately, common sense is in short supply these days.

"That's the twentieth person within the span of a year…" he says, flashing a dollar coin my way. "Heads or tails?"

"Tails." I reply, sipping the remainder of my coffee. With a nod father flicks the gold coin in the air, watching as it falls onto his palm. The head of a long dead president faces upward. "I guess I'm going first?"

"She wrote that article about Kane's assassination…" I continue, watching as Dad moves his pawn to F4. "Something about there being more shooters and how she saw them herself."

I move my pawn to E6 and he retaliates by moving a pawn to G4. I make sure to suppress my grin by sipping my cup of coffee.

"I'd believe anyone else before the _Capitol_ , that's for sure." He snorts. "You know what's scary about all this? How _easily_ they got away with it. Sure there were riots and protests…but you'd think it would've escalated given what Kane put on the table."

"I guess all one needs to do to be a successful politician these days is offer sweet words laced with half-promises," I reply.

"Ain't that how it's always been?"

"I suppose so," I say, moving my queen diagonally to H4 therefore threatening Dad's exposed King. Other than running, blocking or capturing, Dad has _nowhere_ to go. "Checkmate!"

Realizing this, Dad adjusts his black-framed glasses with furrowed brows. "…I was distracted by my lamenting of the same old, same old."

"You _must've_ been. I'm starting my shift at the clinic so I thought I'd play that card," I smirk, rising off the kitchen stool and adjusting my lab coat. "It _worked._ Cyril bring Chevy please, I gotta go!"

From upstairs comes the quick pounding of steps and the jangle of a collar. Cyril enters the kitchen dressed for school, our family bulldog Chevy happily at his side.

"How are your exams going, Cy?" I ask, massaging Chevy's head.

"Pretty cool so far Ma, hey Gramps," he replies, running a comb through his slicked hair with one hand while holding a mirror in the other. "All that's left is civics and English."

Smiling, I begin to pass him a package. "Give this… _special_ correspondence to that art teacher of yours, Mr. Asbury." I say, withdrawing the package from Cyril's grasp before he can take it. "And be _careful._ The PK's would tear you a new one if they caught you."

He shakes his head, swiping the package and placing it in his messenger bag. "Ma, you have _little faith_. When am I not?"

That's true. At sixteen, he takes after his father more and more as he grows. Where Cyril retains his father's handsome features, he exchanges his 'heavy-handed' personality with my 'levelheadedness'…or so people say. His younger sibling on the other hand, Lucius, seems to be a carbon copy of his father in both his looks and abrasiveness. When I step into our home's carport, I see the twelve-year-old terror across the street laughing it up with his pals. They must have early dismissal leading up to the Games. Upon seeing me, he motions for his friends to stay put, adjusting his leather jacket as he crosses the street with a confident swagger. The running joke amongst friends and family is that Luci is twelve going on _eighteen_.

"Hey Ma, how's it goin'?" Lucius greets, petting Chevy. His eyes light up as he spots his grandpa's PMC _Capitolite_ convertible. "Sweet, gramps is home! Maybe we can tune up his wheels while he's here."

"Where'd you get the shades from, Luci?" I ask, opening the car door as he places Chevy into the backseat.

"Some _nosebleed_ tried to make a move on Tracy, so I _beat_ him and _took_ em from him." He explains. As he flashes a smirk my way, I could've sworn his head was swapped for his fathers.

"I want those glasses back with its owner." I say sternly, gesturing to the pillory on the street corner. There's one like that for every neighbourhood. "When the PK's flay that butt of yours, I'm not coming."

" _Okay_ Ma…" he grumbles. He whines even more as I plant a kiss on his forehead, to the teasing of his friends.

"Love ya," I coo, dipping into the driver's seat. "I'll see you by dinner."

…

It doesn't take too long to reach the East Riverside Clinic. While well-off Sixers have the luxury of affording premium care at Downtown's District 6 Receiving, the lower class are treated to standard care in the form of clinics like these that dot various sectors within the District. For the most part, the clinics do their job, helping where we can. But with practicing in District 6 of all places with so many means in our disposal, affairs get… _muddled_ sometimes.

"There you go Cooper, all fixed." I chirp, wrapping a morphling-dabbed band of gauze around his swollen leg. "Now, could you tell me how this happened again?"

The little groosling of a boy frowns, his brown eyes darting towards the glass door where his mother peers inward, her sunken eyes darting from left to right before smiling nonchalantly.

"I-I fell." He glowers, looking downward as his feet beat against the operating table. I turn to my desk, retrieving two pieces of candy. Even though it's not much, in his world it means _everything_.

"Well…if I give you _two_ gum-filled lollipops, will you _try_ to stop ' _falling'?_ "

He flashes me a toothy smile, some missing due to the adults moving in. "…Okay Doctor K!"

Smiling, I ruffle his hair. Muddled describes it all perfectly. "Alright you're good to go." I soothe. As Cooper eases off the table, I open the door and watch as he limps by. I cast his mother an incredulous gaze. Although she looks presentable, all one needs to do is look into their sunken eyes and yellow-tinted skin. Even then most people don't even react anymore. It's just part of life here.

"He banged up his knee pretty good, Mrs. Iverson. That wrap, alongside a milligram injectable should set him straight within under a week's time." I say, handing her the paper bag with Cooper's medicine.

"Ah, ah, ah t-th-thank you Doctor Zahira I don't know what I'd do without you, I swear it!" She nods vigorously. I stifle the urge to scoff. I already know that inejctable is going straight into his mother's pocket for her own uses.

"That's the _third_ time in a span of _two months_ , Sheila. I'm surprised he doesn't have a _permanent limp._ "

She frowns, but the gesture is _far_ from genuine. "Yes, yes I know. Bu-but you know kids, always hyper, always reckless!"

I simply nod. "Right."

She turns away to leave, only to pivot right back. " _Oh, oh, oh,_ I have one more favor to ask! For you see, _I too_ aren't feeling so well…if you catch my drift, _heh heh heh_."

Without a word, I reach back into my office and open up the mini fridge. I retrieve six vials of morphling, placing them gently into a takeaway bag. Her otherwise dead eyes are alight with newfound joy as I begin to place the bag into her hand. Her expression drops when I stop halfway, my other hand performing a 'gimme' gesture.

"Oh yes, of c-c-course," she giggles, handing me a wad of bills. This was probably her entire paycheck, which makes my heart yearn for little Cooper. "That includes last month's payment, which I was behind in."

"Here you go." I say reluctantly, I hand over the bag to which Ms. Iverson quickly snatches out of my grasp and turns to leave, almost bumping into my colleague, Neha. She makes a show of smoothing down Neha's baby bump apologetically before continuing on her way.

"What was that all about?" asks Neha. Neha, like her Husband, are just some of few staff that isn't aware of the clinic's _'side hustles'_. Although she goes about her work with diligence, her sometimes 'hardened' persona makes me think she already knows the gist of the going's-on. All one needs to do is look at the majority of our clientele.

"Just giving her some medicine for her boy." I reply nonchalantly.

"That seems like quite a lot of medicine for one little boy."

"Did you see him? Without them the boy would barely be able to stand on his own."

She clucks her tongue. "Poor kid, remind me to file a report to the PK's. I imagine a community home would be far better for him than his _morphfiend_ of a mother."

"I can't argue with you there…"

She gestures for me to follow her. "We have a code platinum."

Slightly shocked, I check my communicuff which was rendered mute. It appears I got the alert ten minutes ago. "Code _platinum_? What, a politician, a Victor?"

"A _Victor_."

Turning the corner, we walk in on a downtrodden Isabella Wilkinson sitting on top of an operating table. Her knees tucked towards her, she idly plays with Chevy who places her front paws on her knee while Isabella pets her. Sergeant Wilson, a Peacekeeper in charge of this neighborhood, is quick to move us outside while shutting the door.

"Domita, what's going on?" I ask.

"She had an episode at school or something, beat another girl to a pulp." She replies, peering back the Ninety-Ninth Victor. Domita snickers when she says "The girl in question bullied her a lot…I guess she finally got hers."

I turn to Neha now. "Isn't psych _your_ department?"

"She'll need dressing and binding for her wounds, which is _yours._ " She replies, jostling her head to and fro. It's only then that I notice the droplets of blood that pool at the floor of the operating table. With that being said I quickly get to work, entering the room and taking a seat the base of the operating table. Isabella Wilkinson, known for her permanent grin and bright personality, could barely look me in the eye as she continued to absently pet Chevy. Sighing, I pick up the bulldog and lead him out the room before closing it.

"Hello Isabella." I greet, my smile not disappearing as she remains unresponsive. "How are you, if I could just…?" slowly, I retrieve the injured hand in question. It was banged up pretty bad, swollen and bloodied, but manageable all the same. Makes me wonder how the other girl is doing.

"Why do _you_ care?" she asks, her voice deflated.

"It's my job, Isabella." I reply without missing a beat.

" _Exactly_." Isabella replies just as fast. "If it _weren't_ your * _nur_!* job or if I were just plain old Izzy before the Games, I _doubt_ you would."

I place a gentle hand on her knee. "That's _not true_ Isabella…I can't prove that, but it _isn't_. You seem like a good kid _regardless_ of what you been through. If you had to wail on a girl _that_ badly, she probably deserved it. I imagine it felt _pretty good_ …"

That plants a soft smile on her freckled face.

…

It's only when the clock turns six in the evening do I suddenly enjoying my job even moreso. With the clinic all but deserted, I anxiously await near the main entrance when a black car swerves into the cul-de-sac. Exiting the vehicle are four men led by the clinic's chief patron, Mr. Giovanni Pollastrone.

"Mr. Pollastrone, I take it you've ran into some medical trouble?"

"Rightfully so…my friend here had a bad mug of booze, he's out like a light." He says, nodding towards me. "I was thinking that since you're a practitioner of _many talents,_ you could aid us?"

"I can aid him." I affirm, nodding whilst motioning Pollastrone and his boys inside. When I double and triple check to ensure we were alone, my pleasant demeanor all but melts away. I absolutely loathe when an action isn't executed with diligence but instead haphazard abandon.

"Why didn't you _contact me_ first!? You know I hate when I have to be scrambling to prepare myself." I hiss, my heels clicking against the tiles as I lead them to our clinics Trauma Room. The victim in question remains unconscious, moaning as his feet continue to rake against the floor.

"No time. As you know, Downtown is swarmin' with PK's and this here clinic ain't failed me yet." Giovanni smirks, pivoting on his feet with his hands splayed outward. "The boys are cookin' up somethin' _remarkable_ down in R n'D. Take this on for size… _drinkable_ _morphling_ – _strawberry_ flavored!"

People have attempted that in the past…however complaints of feeling 'out of body' rendered the invention less prevalent. I can't help but groan as I think about all the implications this new prototype drug brings. " _Strawberry_ _morphling_ …now the junkies will _really_ be knocking down the gates."

"If we can perfect it, I in turn _we_ will be _rich!_ All I need is my _fabulous_ Zahira to work her magic, could she do that?" smirking, he gestures to the man in between his lackeys. I gesture for them to strap him in. "Ol' Felix here's been holdin' out on me…after all the hits I supply him with. It's only fair he helps us out, no?"

I can't help but smirk. If there's one thing Giovanni knows, it's to cater to my morbid curiosity. As he and his men retreat behind a two-way observation room, I activate my communicuff and select the recording application. "Today is Wednesday, May eighteenth – twenty one sixty three…"

It seems our friend is wide awake, his head jerking upward in shock. "Wha – where am I?!"

"You're just fine Felix…you're in a clinic now." I soothe, taping his arm as he violently tries to jerk free from the binds that constrict him. "That's just a _precautionary_ measure."

"Listen…I told Mr. P that I would pay up as soon as I was able. I bet there are _tons_ of fellas who owe him, why single me out!?"

"Mr. P understands your situation…however your account with him is in arrears." Unlatching a steel briefcase, I present him with a light red substance that still smokes with frost. "You can repay him by testing this for me, however."

"What the hell is that?" he asks, craning his head away from the vial.

"Something that'll make you feel _so much_ better, trust me." I coo, tilting the vial further towards him. Akin to an unsure animal, he gives the contents a whiff. Being a junkie, his eyes are instantly alight as he leans in and downs the vial within a fraction of a second. Smirking, I saunter backward and take a seat in the chair before him, thus beginning the 'favourite' part of my job.

Usually, testing is placed upon the occasional terminal patients that come through us. In Felix's case, he's rather unfortunate. Although his chances aren't slim by any means, what happens in this room probably would've happened days or weeks or even months down the line. What's one more junkie gone due to overdosing on his or her supply?

So, as the unfortunate fellow begins to groan and convulse in pain, I watch on with curiosity while reciting the happenings on my communicuff.

* * *

 _ **Theilan Caldron, 34**_  
 _ **District 6 Male**_  
May 18th, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

For all intents and purposes, today was a good day. I just wish it could be spent somewhere else within the District other than where we currently were.

As we lean against the railing and gaze at the lake, the boats and the skyscrapers, I can't help but feel an unnerving chill. Maybe it's the aura of persons past? Glancing around, I take in the many objects around us. There's a yellow speakerphone off to the side. "EVERYONE HAS A ROLE TO PLAY IN PANEM'S SUCCESS!" says a sign. "THE CAPTIOL HAS INVESTED IN **_YOU_** – PENALTY FOR MISUSE!" says another sign.

A Peacekeeper Officer and his helmeted subordinates approach us from the opposite side. Judging by their stride, they appear to mean business. When they get close enough, I offer the Officer a polite smile. As he continues to walk, the Officer studies us for a split second before tipping his peaked tap towards me as the group continues their patrol. They recognize me, and have been for some time now.

If we were anyone else, we'd be eyed with heightened suspicion at best and charged with _'wasting Capitol resources'_ at worst. If not you, then your family will be left with the bill for barely anyone uses the Ambassador Bridge for the view for just the view alone. Since Panem's inception, the Ambassador Bridge has been a magnet for suicides. Candy Mullen is just one of the many people I've coaxed off the blue railing. Given what she's been through within the past couple of years, I'd think to think our sessions have helped. Her dark hair blows in the wind as she takes shaky drag of her cigarette. The wind however, snuffs it. I'm quick to reignite it, prompting soft thanks from the Fallen Mother – a parent to a tribute that 'sacrificed' their life in the Hunger Games.

"It's been five long years since he died…and part of me still wonders why I'm still alive."

"Orville was an exceptional tribute." I reply with a nod. "Where younger tributes barely survive the bloodbath, he surpassed everyone's expectations."

"I was on a rollercoaster the entire time." Candy says. "All those years of neglecting him because I was in some morph-induced _haze_ and when he left for the Capitol all I wanted to do was have him back in my arms again and tell _I loved him_. I _failed_ him. I failed him as a mother _and_ a provider."

I nod along as she speaks. One of the many signs of potential paths to healing is acceptance. At least Candy has this aspect down pat. "This may be partially true, but at least you're living up to Orville's dream."

"How…?"

"Wanting something _more."_ I add, gesturing to the twin cities on either side of the bridge. "Instead of being flooded with despair, you came to me on your own to seek help. Five years have almost come and gone yet you haven't become a hidden statistic. Why is that?"

"Because I'm a coward?" Candy replies, her eyes welling up with tears.

"Because you gained his _tenacity_." I reply with a smile. "Maybe you had it all along but the drugs clouded it."

Blinking her tears away, she nods. "His death gnaws at my brain every waking day…yet I'm still here instead of being fished out of the lake or wheeled out my house in a body bag. Sometimes I think about his words during his interview and try to apply them…maybe you're right in that regard."

"I'm sorry for your loss Candy…and try as I might, I could never break the barrier to truly experience the pain you do." I soothe. "But what makes you stand out from everyone else in a District filled with problems is your _strength_. Orville had that strength too. I imagine he's happy with your progress."

Taking one more shaky drag, Candy tosses the cigarette over the edge and watches it tumble out of sight and into the lake below. Letting out a sigh, she blinks away a few tears. We ease into a friendly embrace, my arm snaked around her shoulder as I give it a gentle pat. . Candy is a woman with many flaws, and although her son's death does leave her with some of the blame at least she's accepted the facts. With these facts, she can at least function with some remediation.

" _Thank you,_ Theilan…if I just let you walk past me on this bridge five years ago, I don't think you and I would be standing here right now."

"No no no, thank _you_ keeping strong for as long as you have." I reply, gesturing towards the 'Detroit' side of the bridge. "Next time, let's not meet somewhere so…ominous. Maybe we could go to Milliken Park or the Sculpture Park?"

With a nod, the both of us make our way off this bridge and back Downtown. Fishing out a pocketbook from my jacket, I flip towards Candy's name and place a giant checkmark next to it. Out of a sea of names marred with X's to signify my failure to save them, Candy's checkmark offers hope where there isn't much. Where I have built Candy up, she has built _me_ up. One more person saved is one less weight off my conscience.

After Candy and I part ways, I return back to the East Riverside Clinic, the medical centre in which I keep my practice. It's the late afternoon now, so everyone should be packing up for the evening. When I pull into the parking lot, the majority of the staff is engaged in conversation at the main entrance. More surprisingly, my wife Neha converses with Isabella Wilkinson.

"Hello Ms. Wilkinson," I greet after embracing Neha. I glance at her binding and frown. "What brings you here?"

Neha and the young Victor exchange slight smiles as Neha caresses her shoulder. "Izzy had a bad day today. But I think that if she takes a day or two to herself, she'll be just fine."

"Do you need a ride, Izzy?" I ask with a smile. She shakes her head, nodding off towards a peacekeeper car where a familiar female Peacekeeper waits idly. With silent thanks, Isabella makes her way towards the car.

"I shipped her report to the Ministry in the Capitol." Says Zahira while adjusting her glasses. "Apparently she was prescribed medicine but doesn't take it, poor thing."

"How'd she injure it?"

"Wailed on a group of her bullies." She replies.

"Given her background, I don't blame her." I say, giving my colleague a look over. She was still dressed in her lab coat. "Still working into the night I see?"

She gives me a shrug and a smile in return. "I still need to tie up a few loose ends, and then I should be done for the day."

"Well, we'll leave you to it then. See you tomorrow."

"As much as I like her, I never get a solid read on her." Neha mutters as soon as we're a distance away.

"I guess she finds solace in her work, given Virgil's death." I reply.

It doesn't take long to return home, away from the Downtown District and into an average suburb where things are for the most part peaceful. My son and pride and joy, Tanav, is quick to greet us as we enter. Where his mother insists he takes after her soft features, I'm quick to claim that his kindhearted and ingenious personality is thanks to yours truly.

"Hey hey, kiddo, how was school today?!"

"Good!" he chirps, his eyes beaming. "I'm gonna go back and dance!" he zips back into the living room where his favourite show, _Panemian Bandstand,_ plays on the holovision. The sitter, our eighteen-year-old neighbor Clio, watches on with a smile.

"Tanav ate, right Clio?!" asks Neha.

"Yep, my Ma stuffed him up with stew not too long ago!" Clio calls back.

"Well, that leaves me, you, Erika and Jaiven." Neha says, turning to me. "Let's say you and I work on lasagna tonight, they seem to love it?"

"I'd love to."

Erika and Jaiven are good friends of ours, Erika through an arts program and Jaiven through Neha and school. We don't get together too too often, Erika being a free-spirited bohemian and Jaiven a governance professor. But when we do, interesting conversation is plentiful. This is true more than ever especially with everything that's happened recently.

"As much as I love doing my job, I'm sick and tired of the despair I'm faced with every day." Neha says. She proceeds to dab her lips with a napkin to clear way remaining pasta sauce. "Theilan should know this, right hon?"

I open my mouth to reply, but opt to nod in agreement instead. We're lucky, Neha and I. Even though we have our fair share of problems, at least we aren't like others within the District, too drugged up or emotionally broken to function. As taxing as it is, shouldering their pain so that they too can rise is something I accept…even if most of them end up floundering.

"You two are saints, cleaning up a District in which everyone keeps on dirtying." Adds Erika as she reclines in her seat. "As for me, I'm at the end of my rope. But unfortunate for me, I need more likeminded people to kick something off."

"As for me…I share your negativity Neha, I'm resigned." Jaiven sighs, placing his fork onto his now empty plate. "I just don't see how things could change from where they are?"

"No more yearly death battles or a functional democracy in which all rule instead of a few?"

"I don't think things would change overnight, Erika." Neha replies. "Just like now, governments would curry favor to certain regions while leaving others to rot."

"A dictatorship with a smile." Jaiven adds, caressing his beard.

Erika seems to disagree, continuing to shake her head with disdain. "How could you two be so ' _content'_?" she spits, jabbing a pasta-filled fork towards them. "Our hopes and dreams were basically _shattered_ in front of our faces…"

Neha places her hands on her pregnant stomach. "There's not much we can do. What _can_ we do, have a civil war for the _third_ time in _one hundred_ years?"

" _Downers_ and _squares_ \- the both of you." Erika insults, turning to me now. "At least the man of reason is on my side, right?"

I find myself frowning. I've grown up fairly safe from the backlash of the War. Although no one can dispute that there's still a mutt in the room. "Something's got to give…Maybe very soon or not so soon."

* * *

 _ **Isabella Wilkinson, 19**_  
 _ **Victor of the 99th Hunger Games**_  
May 23rd

* * *

All talk ceases when a man with a triangle goatee takes the stage and taps the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you our first piece of the night – "Panem" by the _lovely_ Erika Mitchell."

I'm quick to burst out with polite applause, but cut myself short as everyone around me snaps their fingers instead. So, I do that too as a petite woman in a black beret and shades – even though we're inside – striped shirt and black leggings emerges through the cigarette smoke and takes her place on stage, sitting on a stool. The goatee man takes his place by a band as they begin to play light jazz.

 _Panem - all for one and all for… one…? Hmph, that doesn't seem right?  
What do you mean there's a catch?  
I thought everyone had a part to play?  
Oh, so thirteen of us do all the toiling while you reap the benefits?  
Looking back at it now it seems like this was rigged from the start.  
Panem, why do you cull the futures best and brightest?  
Go fuck yourself and your Games, I have plenty to eat thanks to my tesserae.  
Oh yeah, there's a caveat to that.  
Panem, take a look in the mirror.  
You said you'd be different?  
My my how far you've fallen.  
Panem please take a seat, your countrymen are concerned for your wellbeing but Momma Capitol seems to think things are just swell.  
Panem, we have a problem here…! If one has an ailment, do they just sit there and let it fester?  
Panem we've tried it beat it twice, but something tells me the third time's a charm.  
Panem, I'm putting my pedal to the metal._

Overtaken by a spasm, I let out a resounding "WOO!" as the audience 'snaps' Erika off the stage. Surprisingly they react positively by cheering too, causing the presenter and me to blush – for different reasons of course.

"Jeepers Silvia, you bohemians sure are _woop, woop_ artsy!" I say, elbowing my fellow Victor. That's what they call them, the news – ' _bohemians'_ or _'avant-guardists'_ , 'Rabble-rousers' high off chems as they debate radical thoughts and threaten Panem's harmony. Here I am in the thick of it all at Silvia's bar – _"Starr's Den"._ It isn't as 'popular' as someone would expect a Victor's establishment to be. It's underground; I had to use a passphrase into an intercom to get in here. I'm not surprised, part of me is waiting for PK's to break down the door and detain us.

"You know it kid." Silvia replies, extinguishing her cigarette. "You see this place, _this_ is the _refuge_ of the _intellectual_ , of the _dropout_ – sick of the conditioning the _dead minds_ over in the crown jewel impose on us."

"But we aren't like them? We're Victors…" I say gesturing rapidly and haphazardly to the patrons around us. _Thanks spasms._ "As much as I want to relate to them, I can't really."

"What separates us from the Cessna Embraers, Rafaela Novias and Zenobia Rivendells is that we _understand_ the system for what it truly is." Koller adds. "Where as they adapted to the system their own way we decided to opt out. Before you joined the team, we were freaks in the eyes of the Capitol. Good, we didn't care, _still don't."_

"So…as long as we ground ourselves, we're out of the system?" I wonder.

Silvia nods, jabbing a finger toward me. "None of this shit is _real_ …it's like _The_ _Twilight Zone_ , everything is a fucking _show_. As long as you _know_ this and apply it you're golden."

We 'snap' as another artist finishes their performance. These people are angry, anyone could see that. Our situation is wrong, but history shows us war doesn't help. As for me, I just want to _live_. Maybe while I'm doing so, help improve the District anyway I can.

…

It's still all very weird to me.

It's Reaping Day morning now as I pull my car to the curb and join the people out and about on the sidewalk. Downtown is decorated from top to bottom in crimson and gold to celebrate the festivities. Most people out and about are congregated near restaurants, eating their 'probable' last breakfasts. Even now as I let out the occasional outburst or gesture, they still continue to gawk as per usual although the confusion and hate isn't there anymore. Is it shock or fear for what I did to get back here? This continues as I enter Aunt Dixie's Diner, a popular restaurant for young people – especially students. So when I enter and make my way towards the luncheon counter, it was noticeably quiet. But like our escort Flo Shakespeare instructed me, I keep my heat up and my eyes forward as if everyone in the room were nobodies, paying attention only to Dixie herself. She was a younger woman with pale skin and a brown updo with a bandana in it. She was at least old enough to be my mother at least.

"Mornin' Izzy, how can I help ya?" She asks with a toothy grin.

"Hello, Aunt Dixie." I greet, taking a seat on a stool. My head jerks back and my right hand launches into the air as I bellow " _I'm hungry, hungry, hungry! Hurry the fuck up you slut!_ I'll take your finest plate of hotcakes please…"

She lets out a chuckle that turns her skin red. "Okay, okay…hotcakes comin' right up!"

It doesn't take long to be presented with a stack of Sixes finest hotcakes, drizzled with strawberry sauce and apple juice to boot. As I dig into my meal, I notice laughter followed by doo wop. Crowded around the jukebox of course were _Chevy Anderson_ and his gaggle of pals. And _he's_ staring right at me.

Quickly I shift my view back to the hotcakes, although the clacking of shoes against the tile signifies that someone is coming.

"Psst, dollface." He purrs. "How's it goin'?"

Slowly, I turn towards Chevy and give him a look over. True to his hoodlum fashion, where everyone else in Six are dressed in their Reaping Day best, he dawns jeans with a leather jacket with a tight white shirt underneath. His black hair is of course, greased with pomade and that _stupid_ toothpick hangs in his mouth as per usual. He leans against the counter, those cute blue eyes filled with nothing but trouble…

 _Did I just say cute?_ I feel a verbal spasm coming on, so I suppress it like a sneeze. It ends up coming off as a vigorous shake of the head. "Why do _you_ care, Chevy?"

Clucking his tongue, he raises his hand in playful surrender. "C'mon, don't be like that… I'm just concerned for you is all, after you blacked out on McDermott last week no one's heard a peep from you."

I glance at my hand that remains bandaged. After years of ridicule for being myself and returning from the Games after killing three other teenagers for the opportunity, all the jeers and rude looks stopped. Sadie and her pals avoided me like a disease until last week at lunch when she finally came up to me and ' _apologized'_. In return, she got my fist mashed into her face until they had to _pry_ me off. Since then, I've never felt so elated in my life.

"What? Since I survived a death battle and wailed on the most popular girl in our grade I've gained more of your respect? _Mmph, ugh_ _ohmygodyouresocute!_ "

" _Ha ha_ , your noodle betrays you." He jeers, sniggering as I clamp my mouth with my hands. "You and I both know we've felt some way about each other for a while now…you more than I. I'd be lyin' if I said that you goin' through what ya did changes some things…"

"You don't say…" I reply. My voice was still muffled as I continue to cover my mouth.

His fingers dance along my arm as his lips curl into a sneer. "I was just thinkin'…maybe you and I could start over again? Izzy and the Chevster, whaddya say?"

I feel like my heart is about to erupt out of my mouth. Chevy Anderson, the boy _every girl_ in school drools after wants to go out with _me_? "I…umm… _ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh yesyesyes_ , would like that very much, _for you to fuck me or me to fuck you,_ shit _!_ "

Chevy laughs, his face settling into a smile so wide his lips could fall off. "So that's it then, we're jacketed now."

My cheeks filled with heat, I nod. Before I could say anything else however, my communicuff lights up with a text from Flo yearning for me to come over to Silvia's apartment to get ready for the ceremony.

"I guess I'll see you in a little while?" I hum with an equally as wide of a smile.

"I guess so."

"Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone?"

"The Chevster makes no promises."

…

Whereas other Escorts are dreamy, Flo Shakespeare has her feet firmly planted on the ground. Instead of twenty-five years old, you'd think she were fifty the way she marches through the halls of the Justice Building as Silvia, Koller and I struggle to keep up.

"There's a full blown _riot_ in District 5." She tells us. "If they keep it up they can kiss their chance at victory goodbye."

"So like _every other_ year then?" Silvia quips with an eye roll.

"Sounds like a gas." Koller adds.

Flo frowns. "You two zip it, before Izzy get's infected with your thoughts. You're all going to be on your _best behavior_ out there. No _googly-eyes_ , no looking like you want the Gods to _smite you_ where you stand. You're going to be as pristine as Snow's roses, you dig?"

As I nod, Koller and Silvia say nothing.

"Good. Izzy, did your take your medicine?" smiling, I wave the pill bottle around as Flo nods contently. "Good. We wouldn't want any unbecoming 'hiccups' now." As soon as Flo's head turns my face droops into a frown. The pill stifles my vocal spasms but the gestures remain. I guess winning doesn't stop all the negative comments about things out of my control.

The crowds offer substantial applause when my name is called by Governor Milliken. Like Flo instructed, I offer a polite wave as a Peacekeeper – Sergeant Wilson, escorts us to our respective seats. Because of her helmet, I wouldn't have known it was her if she didn't gently squeeze my forearm and give me a nod.

In fact, _all_ the Peacekeepers were helmeted. Gone were those clear visors they often wore. Gone were their batons, instead wielding their rifles. With a new film played, Governor Miliken introduces Flo to the audience. In a District filled with dark colours, Flo stands out with a white-collared floral dress that ends at her thighs with white boots to pair. Her hair, large and rounded is poofier than mine, which is saying something.

"Hello District 6, I'm _charmed_ to be here as your escort for yet another year – a Quarter Quell at that! Last year saw us gain another Victor to our ranks; maybe we can make it a twofer!? Let's start with the gal's first."

Clutching the lever Flo tugs it downward, beginning the reaping process. My heart sinks when the portrait of a woman with fair skin, brown hair and cat-eye classes appears on screen. "Zahira Kazimirova, come right on up!"

The groans and expletives were audible when the cameras focus on Doctor K. Her gold earrings jangle from left to right as she gawks in confusion and shock. Instead of walking down the aisle she immediately marches into the male section, getting into a heated argument with a man in a trench coat and fedora. As she lays into him and men around them, he throws his hands up in confusion. The Peacekeepers are on them instantly, gently escorting the doctor toward the stage.

Flo, ignoring the cries of anger from the crowd, watches as Doctor K takes her place on stage. "I wonder what the hubbubs about?" she says, as the Doctor continues to shake her head with disbelief. She looked good…with the nude pumps, black pencil skirt and white blouse - maybe even sponsor worthy, if I dare myself qualified to make that guess.

"Theilan Caldron!" Flo announces. That was Doctor Neha's husband, the one that offered me a ride.

The crowd has all but lost it now. The aisles, once neat and orderly, were now just a mass of angered people screeching fowl at not one, but _two_ doctors – two community beacons, being taken away from them and _for what?_

The cameras show the Peacekeepers shoving and beating their way into the audience as they descend on in a blue shirt and slacks comforting his wife. They tug him away and towards the stage. When he gets up here he points toward the microphone, something that Flo is quick to relinquish for him.

"Ladies and gentlemen _please_ _calm down_!" He entreats. The yearning in his voice is evident. Slowly but surely the fists in the crowd stop shaking, the yelling among them ceases and Peacekeepers and Sixers alike stop shoving one another. "It's been my pleasure aiding you all these past couple of years, but our work – Zahira and I's – doesn't have to _stop_." Turning, he extends his hand toward Zahira's as she shakes it. "Judging by your reactions you know the potential of our situation. In order to see a positive outcome," he gestures towards the crowd. " _This_ can't stand. With the help of our Victors and maybe even a few of you, maybe we can turn this around."

By end of his speech, the crowd was still – unorganized, but still. I exchange looks with Koller and Silvia before watching as Flo – perplexed still, quickly breaks into a smile as she lightly applauds.

"That was _commendable_ baby. I wish that could be played on _repeat!_ Please, let's have a round of applause for this year's tributes – Zahira Kazimirova and Theilan Caldron!"

Silence fills the square until a smattering of applause follows. It isn't applause you'd see in the Career Districts, it was applause based on respect more than anything else. Even as the Doctor Kazimirova and Caldron are escorted away, the crowd remains. Many glare at the stage, while others chatter audibly amongst themselves. It's only when the Head Peacekeeper barks through a loudspeaker to clear the square do they slowly begin to trickle away.

"We gotta try something, _anything_." I beseech, turning towards the two elder Victors. They already carry the looks of defeat on their faces. Koller lights a cigarette with a shaky hand. "Izzy, if it was taxing trying to get _you_ home, imagine how taxing it'll be trying to get _them_ home."

"So what, this year you guys can't just go with the flow! It's our _job_ to try."

"The first time's always the hardest, kid." Says Silvia. "It's best to curb the enthusiasm, for the sake of your health."

My right eye twitches as I shudder, rapidly shaking my head. "No, no, no. Starting now, there'll be _no more_ curbing. We just won last year, the eyes on _still_ on us. Maybe we can make a _difference_."

Leaving them, I quickly march up the steps toward the enterance. When things get difficult, laying down and giving up will get you _nowhere_. I know this better than _anyone_.


	13. D7: A Guardian and A Lumberjack

**A/N:** Thank you Alex and Santiago, I appreciate it

* * *

 **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**  
 **District 7: A Passionate Guardian and A Boisterous Lumberjack**

* * *

 _ **Verona Kinsley, 63**_  
 _ **District 7 Female**_  
May 20th, 2163

* * *

"How's that Ms. Kinsley?" chirps Marilyn, glancing up at me with her big blue eyes. I let out a soft giggle. The children are creating a new mural for the main atrium, an orchard. In this 'orchard' of ours, each child has a part to paint. So in our gymnasium, the children and I slowly chip away at the large brown canvass splayed on the floor. Marilyn, always eager to please, has a tendency to seek out my opinion. This is especially true when it comes to arts and crafts.

I give her a gentle nudge with my shoulder. "Very good Marilyn, _very_ good. Now use the sponge to fill out the apples and the leaves."

Her happy nod in reply is cut short as her eyes shift to my portion of the mural, a shining sun and a flying bird. "I wish I could do drawing like you…"

"My dear, you're so young!" I chide, pinching her cheek so that it leaves an orange smudge. "You'll have plenty of time to sharpen _your_ skills. Be happy with what you can do _now_ , because I sure am."

She smiles. "Okay, Ms. Kinsley."

Gea rushes into the recreation room, breathless. Her face doesn't look the sort that's been told bad news; rather she carries an expression of surprise and glee. When the lead nurse barges in out of breath, it usually means a new addition to the _Seven Oaks Community Home and Centre_ is on their way.

"Another?" I splutter, quickly cleaning my hands of paint.

"Yep…I just got off the phone with Providence… _phew_ they should be here any moment now."

Rising from off the ground, I gesture towards the exit. "Well, what are we waiting for!?"

We're quick to make out way into the stairwell and down the stairs to the main atrium. Making our way towards the front entrance, we catch the eye of some of the other children and teenagers, prompting them to cast inquisitive glances toward us from their activities. "Do you have any specifics; did they tell you anything of note?" I press Gea, however when the two of us eye a team of paramedics entering in, my queries are answered for me. The medics present us with a carriage, inside of it lies an infant swaddled in a light blue blanket. He can't be more than a few hours old...poor thing.

"What's this little one's story?" I ask.

"His mother died of morphling complications an hour ago." The Paramedic replies with a solemn shake of the head. "She was fine yesterday and through the night…but I guess it wasn't meant to be."

As I cluck my tongue, Gea asks " _My my_ …And what happened to the father?"

"A peacekeeper, supposedly…and we all know how _that_ works." He mutters, giving the pram to me. "His name is _Rowan_. He's a run-of-the-mill baby, no complications, healthy as horse. We thought he'd be a fine addition here."

"You're not wrong. Baby Rowan will fit in _just fine_ here, won't he everyone?" I say aloud, meeting the inquisitive gazes of the other children as they begin gathering around. "Everyone this is Rowan, your _foster_ brother."

The children huddle around, ooh'ing and aww'ing from the main foyer all the way to the nursery, bunching up at the reflective observation window. Even the other nurses are smitten with the infant as Gea presents him to them. Before you know it, little Rowan has a little spot of his own fit with a bio chart that Gea places at the foot of his cradle. Even though it's only been seconds since he was admitted, it's as if he were gone for a checkup. All around him lay about nineteen more babies that vary in age. He's just one more piece in a generation just beginning to plant its roots. It's too bad Gea and I won't be here to see them all the way through, In more ways than one when it comes to me specifically.

"I don't know how we do it sometimes, Rona…" Gea whispers as we slowly drift through the rows of cots. Despite a few coos here and there, the babies for the most part remain in slumber.

"Love, hope and sheer determination come to mind." I muse. It seems to be the standard formula for all Community Homes, orphans and descendants of orphans, such as myself, taking care of our community's most vulnerable. If not _us_ , very few would step up to take the mantle.

It's the top of the hour, about three o'clock as I watch from the second floor window as youngsters make their way home from school, most likely wrapping up their final exams of the semester. For the most part, excluding the senior students, they're lucky. If it were any other year, two of those students would probably never see their school again. The reclusive Zara, followed by the maverick Jonah and the kind Simona are the first to enter the kitchen, followed by their fellow young people. The sharing of the same blood and faces is where the comparisons stop. If it weren't for tomorrow's Pre-Reaping Festival, the triplets would be off doing their own things. I guess we could add competition and baking to their mutual interests. I ask them. And due to the community's interest and insistent pushing from yours truly, Seven Oaks has a kitchen in which we use to hold classes and cook for our residential orphans.

"You guys ready to get your baking on?" I ask as the kids rush to prep their kitchens. As I receive a chorus of affirmatives, Jonah lets out a cocky chuckle.

" _Are we ready_ , _of course_ we're ready!" replies Jonah. "We've been sitting on this recipe for _weeks_."

Simona seems to agree. "We let Dad try it. So if he liked it, it's gonna knock the _pants_ off this year's judges for sure."

"I can't help but smell a little bias; will _you_ be judging Ms. Kinsley?" inquires one Youngster.

I raise my hands up in false surrender. "Due to complaints such as _yours,_ we're shaking up how we decide a winner. Now remember; keep your eyes on your own stations! Don't leave your recipes lying around!"

The pie baking contest drew big crowds at the annual festival. There are at least twenty pies entering the competition, which requires each contestant to really try and stand out from the pack. So far there seems to be a lot of diversity as I stroll around each station. Rhubarb, Apple with caramel, grape…

As Zora places their pie into the oven, Simona glances at me while drying her hands. "Say, Gran?"

"Yes Simona?"

"What's your reaping percentile?"

I give her a sad smile. "About seventy percent, my darling."

The sounds of disappointment are audible when a youngster asks "Why so high, Ms. K?"

"It was the _War_ , wasn't it?" pipes up Zora.

"If I were a big brain, I wouldn't want naysayer's influencing the next generation." I say to the youngster, pointing a fingerer towards Zora" _That_ and fighting for what was right, even when the odds are against you."

"Why did you rebel, Gran?" asks Jonah.

"Isn't it obvious? I fought and helped them for _you_." I reply, gesturing to all the children in the room. "I thought I'd try and make Panem a better place."

"Do you think Panem is better now than it was before?" asks a youngster with a raised hand.

I'm treading into dangerous ground here, judging by the uneasy frowns from children of supposed pro-Capitol parents and the inquisitive looks given to me by others. I don't care either way, they should be uneasy. Because nothing about Panem is normal, any sane person should believe that. So, I simply shake my head. "New boss, _same rules_ m'darling…now, finish up your pies so we can fridge 'em for tomorrow."

...

The next day arrives and the Festival has reached its peak. It's located just outside the Community Centre, next to a wide open field. People eagerly gather around the various tents and booths that dot the field. Everyone seems to be holding a plate of pie in their hands, alongside a ballot so they can decide which reigned supreme. With music in the air and perfect weather to boot, today seemed like a good day to stem the blues of the impending storm. I stand in the thick of it all with my adoptive son Rodrigo Junior and his husband that I tolerate, Manuel.

"This is quite the shindig, Mom. Every year it seems to be better than the last." says Rodrigo as he slips a piece of the triplets' apple-caramel pie into his mouth. "Call me biased, but I think our kids have a _gift_."

"I agree wholeheartedly. Their pie is something else." Manuel adds. "You have a knack for bringing people together, Verona. Although I really need to add that this 'shindig' wouldn't have happened without the political prowess of _yours truly_."

I don't know what Rodrigo sees in the man, honestly and truly. He's a districtorial alderman for this sector and a pro-Capitol puppet to boot. Unfortunately he's the puppet I need to keep in good graces, less we lose the resources to keep Seven Oaks afloat. So, like any other unassuming old lady, I grin in reply.

"Kinsley!" calls a familiar voice. Its Aspen Coombs, wheeled in by his wife and children.

"Aspen, how are you?" I ask him, making my way up the hill. I exchange pleasantries with his wife and children as they leave us alone, walking down to join the festivities.

"Why do you do it, Kinsley?" wonders Aspen, glancing up at me from his wheelchair. Every time we get together, I wonder how the man is still alive. He instigated the 001 Mill ambushes that killed a platoon of peacekeepers back in HG 75, lured them into the woods and blew em sky high with dynamite embedded into the ground. They shot him out of the tree, crippling him from the waist downward. I'm surprised they didn't kill them then and there, but I guess letting him live to see what came of his efforts was a far more effective punishment. What was once a dark-skinned hunk of a lumberjack was now a grizzled veteran of a lost cause.

"Well _hello_ to you too, Aspen." I reply snarkily. "I'm glad you could come out."

"Hi Verona…" he replies hastily.

I pat his leg. "There you go. Now what do you mean by 'why'? Why do I do what?"

"Why contribute given all the shit we've dealt with?"

"It may be their world and their rules, but it doesn't mean I can't resist in my own way." I gesture towards the fair we overlook from the hill we stand on. "Putting together events like these, helping the children, keeping this place afloat. Where they would rather us fill our quotas, go home and repeat, I'm maintaining something our community can be proud about."

"Doesn't it bother you that all this could taken away if we were to step outta line?"

"Of course, but it hasn't happened yet." I reply, wheeling him down the hill and towards the main stage where the crowd gathers. I think Governor Rosellini is about to make his speech. "There have been plenty of close calls over the years, like threats of closure and mergers with other homes in the area…but I like to think that it's because of my hard work and design that's allowed this place so many years of success."

He shakes his head as the crowd cheers for our governor. "It's never enough though."

"Excuse me?"

"It's never enough. People still go hungry, orphans continue to flow in, inadequacies pile up…they could be fixed but they don't care."

I shrug. "Being a servant to the people is never easy…It's a motivator if you ask me. It's why strive every day to be the best I can be."

"I guess that's why you got it."

I furrow my brows in confusion. "Got what?"

He points toward the stage where Governor Rosellini boasts a wide smile, a shiny medallion dangles between both of his hands. Zora, Jonah and Simona where there too. All eyes glance towards me with the same toothy smile he sported.

"Well Ms. Kinsley? We have a citizen's award with your name on it!"

* * *

 ** _Chris Samara, 30  
_** ** _District 7 Male_**  
 _May 16th, 2163_ (HG 100)

* * *

"Alright, alright let's get that façade upright! Altogether now, put your backs into it! One…two…three, pull!"

I don't know how we did it, but as soon as I reached three, the final part of this house was raised into the air and fastened into place by a team on the opposite side. Slowly, we step backward to truly take in our handiwork. The project was a duplex, prefabricated for easy assembly to compensate for the high demand of families wanting to move away from the concrete sprawl that concentrated around Seven's various mills and factories. Like this house in front of me, there are many like it that surrounds it. Painted in colors such as yellows and teals, the houses varied in levels of completion. Within a month's time, we'd have a brand-new neighbourhood on our hands fit for hundreds of families to live in.

I drape my arms around Frank and Lillian while continuing to take in our handiwork. "Not bad guys, not bad at all…"

"You know you're the _crew foreman_ right?" says Frank warily.

"Yeah, so what?"

"I'd _kill_ for your position, Chris. Instead of sitting on your ass at the site office, you're out here still pulling your weight like the rest of us dregs."

"If the leader doesn't come down from his tower every now and then, he ain't a proper leader." I say with a wink, jostling his shoulder.

"Remind me to secure a lot, will ya Samara?"

"I'm right there with ya, Lil." I reply. "Here's hoping the reaping doesn't catch us before we can, eh?"

Lillian frowns. "Don't remind me…"

A lot of the guys and gals here were in the high percentiles in terms of reaping probability this year, myself included. I could give anyone the names of the people in my crew who grew up without a mother or a father because of the war – again I included. Us lumberjack and jills are a rebellious bunch I suppose. There's not much we can do except continue to live our lives the best we can. Before we know it, the end-of-the-day whistle blares. Music to my ears if you ask me. In orderly columns under peacekeeper guard, we make our way towards the quonset hut at the edge of the site to return individual tools. The General Foreman, Flaherty, oversees the returns. Like a traffic peacekeeper, he conducts workers here and there with a mundane expression on his mug. That is, until he catches eyes with me.

" _Samara_!" he barks, beckoning for me to come forward. "How's your block coming along?"

"Everything is coming along A-OK, Jim. We just finished fastening the last house together." I reply, clapping his shoulder. He glances at my hand, frowning. I ignore his reaction, as being at ease isn't one of Jim's strongsuits. At least he knows that someone cares for him regardless of his shell. "Yeah, well make you and your team get those _doors and windows_ installed by the end of the week."

"Right on, Jim, we'll be done those in a jiff!" I reply, turning to Lilian now as we make our way towards the site's impromptu parking lot. "I dunno how he affords to be so uptight all the time."

"The man's on a tight schedule, he has no time for fun." Lillian shrugs. "So, will I catch you at Danton's in a little while?"

"You can bet on it! I just need to touch base with the tribe before I come down."

The drive to Tumwater isn't long at all. It's a quaint little part of the District – the government quarter where the more comfortable of us live. The Hall of Justice is right around the corner too. Entering my home, I approach the front door mantle, taking off the emerald necklace that sat around my neck and hang it over a portrait of a woman who shares the same dark hair and blue eyes that I do. "Good afternoon, Mom."

The house itself is quiet, until clinking of glass and soft laughter could be heard. Moving through the living room and onto the back deck whaddya know, the whole family is here enjoying barbeque. Boggy mans the grill while our wives Mary and my sister Stacia sit around the table. Little Patrick seems to be enjoying his sweet potatoes he's so fond of.

Boggy grins. "Hey hey, look whose back!"

"What a pleasant surprise! I didn't know you guys were comin' over." I say, planting a kiss on Mary's cheek, which she returns.

"No on calls today at the hospital for either of us so we thought we'd come over and give Mary some company for the day." Boggy replies.

Rolling her eyes my sister drawls dryly "Although her attention _was and is_ being diverted."

Waving them off without taking her eyes off the screen, Mary says "These client books won't balance themselves y'know…"

I move over to my son now, who bears a toothy smile. "Hi Dad!"

" _Hey buddy_ , look at you putting away that supper like a _champ_. Thirty minutes tops, you'll be here beggin' for more. Ain't that right, Mary?"

Mary snorts, continuing to glance down at her holopad. "If he keeps eating the way he does I'll send him off to the lumberyards to pay for _upkeep_."

"I swear he ate more than I have, and I'm eating for _two_." Stacia adds while patting her stomach.

Smirking, I jostle Patrick's shoulders and ruffle his hair. "Boys gotta eat, and my Patrick is a growin' boy, right?"

"Mhm!" he exclaims, taking another spoonful of potato. A growing boy he was. Already a head taller than most of his playmates, Stacia – thank Panem for family connections – says he'll be quite tall when he gets older, _just like his pops._ Boggy serves me a plate of venison and potatoes as we both take a seat.

"So," I begin, digging into my meat. "What were you guys laughin' about before I came in?"

"We were going over our high school reunion last week and how you introduced me to your sister."

"Oh yeah… _Boggy, Boggy, Boggy,_ how could you fall for that, I don't know." I muse, shaking my head. "I still remember your face when she reacted."

"How was I supposed to know you were going to jot down what I liked about her and pass it down for her to get it?" Boggy replies, much to the amusement of the ladies.

"It _worked_ , that's all that matters bud." I say with a wink.

With dinner all done and Mary washing up Patrick for bed, Boggy and I decide on a men's retreat into town. We're halfway outside the door before a sharp clearing of the throat could be heard.

"Where are you two dinguses skulking off to?" Stacia inquires with a raised eyebrow.

"Nowhere special, Boggy and I were gonna head down to Danton's..." I reply, her gaze rendering my voice insecure. She knows what going to Danton's entails.

"Remember what they said – _mod-er-ation_." She even claps her hands together for emphasis. "I miss Mom too, but we can't afford a relapse into how you were _before."_

Groaning, I wave her off. Her words alone make me wanna relapse. _"Okay, okay…_ for Panem's sake. It's a social gathering. We'll be fine pinkie promise."

"Besides, he's got me as a wingman. We'll be fine." Boggy adds with the supportive hand over my shoulder. Stacia responds with a rolling of the eyes and a dismissive wave. "Well…go on then."

With my Sister's blessing, we head on down to Danton's. A homey bar and grill for us working men and women to congregate. Since it's a weekday, it isn't as rowdy as Danton's can be, but the chatter is lively. Its seen even more traffic by tourists and locals alike within the last couple of years due to their son, Everett Danton, winning the Games back in '61. Unfortunately it ain't all that peachy. Just behind the bar counter and above the assortment of spirits was a portrait of Landry Danton, the daughter they lost in '58. Even though the parents keep in good spirits, you can't help but feel bad. Anthony Danton, the father, sets another bottle of hard cider as I down my second bottle.

"Are you sure you're okay Samara?" Anthony inquires, slinging a towel over his shoulders. "Listen, I don't want the missus hounding me down if you mess up."

"Jeez, _what_ , my life is an open secret now? C'mon I'm finnne…as _wine_ , heh heh." I pat the shoulders of Boggy and Lillian. "Add another round for my good friend and my brother in law over here, will ya?"

Alright Samara, three hard ciders coming right up." He nods. When we each receive our bottles, I make a show of raising my bottle towards a portrait of the late President Kane that hangs just above Landry's.

"This one's for you, Uncle Kane." I begin, inclining my head. "Somethin' tells me we're in for a bumpy ride this year."

"Speaking of bumpy rides, I never asked you guys, what're your percentiles?"

"Somewhere in the low seventies." Replies Boggy.

I nod to Boggy. "Same as Boggy's."

"And here I thought I was in deep water – I'm in the low sixties. You guys seem to take your odds lightly. Wish I had your freeness."

I shrug. If there's one thing my Mother taught me, it's that all one can do in Panem is live as merrily as you can. No use being upset over something out of our design. "There's nothin' much you can do Lil. All we can do is hope it ain't us."

Lil nods her head to and fro. "Can't argue with you there."

Even though the chattiness of the bar, the national anthem could still be heard as a patron shushes everyone up.

"Hey barkeep turn it up, the executions are on!"

All eyes dart toward the holovision affixed to the farthermost wall. Panem's seal dissipates to an all grey room, draped with banners. Through a side door Peacekeepers march out six people clad in orange coveralls, placing them centre stage where six nooses hang loosely.

 _"Good evening Panem. In celebration of one hundred years of peace and prosperity alongside twenty five years since the quelling of the mockingjay rebels, the Capitol believes that as we usher in a new era, we must shed our old baggage."_

On screen, a Peacekeeper proceeds to discard the hoods of six men and women. By the looks of them, they're old enough to be my parents.

 _"The people who stand before you are the remnants of the ringleaders who sought to destabilize the nation that fed them and protected them just a short twenty-five years ago. After years of confinement in order to reflect on their crimes, the time has come for them to atone for their sins against Panem."_

One by one, each prisoner is fitted with a rope around their necks. One Peacekeeper nods to another who wraps his hand around a lever. For a minute, only silence. This causes everyone to jump and exclaim when the Peacekeeper finally pulls the lever, causing the prisoners to dangle violently as they jerk back and forth. The camera cuts to a spectator box where President DeWynter and other officials applaud before switching back to the Peacekeeper who splays his hands out in a 'behold' gesture.

 _"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the price of selfish thought. No matter what your status is, no matter how tantalizing the proposal, no single individual or thought is above that of what has been established for more than a century."_

As some of us murmur in dismay, the more 'patriotic' of us clap and cheer along with the audience in camera.

"Can ya turn that crap off?" Lilian barks to Anthony. "In a week's time, I'll get my eyeballs worth of swill. I don't feel like starting early."

The immediate area falls silent immediately. Pivoting our heads back and forth, Boggy and I find no peacekeepers. There couldn't be any PK's around, or else they would've been on Lil like bark to a tree. However some stuffed shirt, judging by his getup a local official, seems to take offense to her words.

"This bitch has quite the mouth on her." He snorts, rising out of his booth and sauntering towards us. He was a Hispanic man…I've seen his campaign posters before. Alderman Manuel Santos. "Maybe I should report you for it?"

" _What_?" Lil spits back, rising off her stool only for me to place a gentle hand on her chest. Taking one last swig of my cider, I hop off my stool and meet him halfway.

"I'm sorry sir, what was that you just called the young lady here?"

"Hey uh, Chris…?" Boggy interjects, prompting me to raise a hand.

" _No_ Bogs, I want an explanation."

"I was just saying that it seems that the message of that viewing went over her head…maybe _yours_ two."

"Well, she was just sayin' what everyone was thinkin'." I reply. "Why don't you go back to your booth and be a tool some other day, eh? What's it to you?"

"And then you guys constantly complain about why life doesn't get any better? With that attitude I can see why…" Alderman Santos licks his lips while glancing around the bar that continues to be blanketed with silence. Listen, how about _you_ go drown your sorrows as per usual and I pretend I didn't hear a thing, okay? OK."

Hmm…

Shrugging, I begin to turn around and return to my seat, only for me to spin around and launch my fist into his jaw.

* * *

 _ **Everett Danton, 19**_  
 _ **Victor of the 98th Hunger Games**_  
May 23rd

* * *

To keep a sense of normalcy I find myself parked in the local drive-in for a get together with some pals from school. On the day prior it's custom to have 'one final' outing or meal with friends and family. It's weird being on the outside looking in. I don't have to fear much anymore, having been through the ringer and living to tell about it. Everywhere I look everyone seems to be holding on to each other ten times closer than they would any other time of the year.

It is the Reaping Day eve, so I'd expect nothing less.

"Here ya go guys, snacks on the house!" I announce, following behind the concession stand worker as he carries a platter filled with various snacks. Cheering, they quickly swipe up their favourite sweet.

"Hey hey, look at that!" Linden exclaims.

"Everett is a Victor of the people, dont'cha know?" Sage adds.

I make a show of bowing. "No need to thank me, just showcasing my love."

"Or flaunting your Snows." Snorts Azalea with an eyeroll.

"…That too." I reply snidely to the amusement of my friends. Picking up some snacks of my own I move two cars over to mine, where Cedara rests her head on her hand.

I offer her a bag of popcorn. "Hey Dara, I got ya popcorn. Extra butter, your faavourite…"

"Gee, thanks Everett." She replies lamely, taking the bag without casting me a glance. Cedara's been giving me the cold shoulder since I picked her up. It doesn't seem to be anger, since she responds to my attempts at affection. It's more like sadness, as her face carries that worried expression she sports so much. We're still at the pre-show commercials, so we might as well get to the bottom of it now.

"C'mon 'Dara…I won't know what's wrong if y'don't tell me?" I quiz, caressing her shoulder.

"It's just well…you're going to the Capitol tomorrow, right?"

"Yea, and…?"

She adjusts herself so that she's looking at me now. "And look at how they _treat_ you, the touching, the kisses, _tons and tons_ of airheaded Capitol girls groveling at your feet while I'm just here having to _put up_ with it."

"So what, are you trying to say…?"

"I'm saying why be together when you've grown bigger than anyone else in the District?" She glowers, turning her attention back to the screen. "Why keep _me_ when there's a _country_ of girls wanting you?"

I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place here. I can't say I don't love the attention, that I don't love the money, the house, paparazzi screeching my name wherever I go. I'd like to think I _haven't_ forgotten where I came from? If I did why would I be here, why would I still be with Cedara?

"It don't mean anything, Dara. It's all for _show_." I side across the car's bench seat, slinking my arm around her waist. "At the end of the day, it's _you_ I'm with; _you're_ the one I'm coming home to."

Her expression brightens at my words. She responds by laying a head on my shoulder. "Well, you're still here, so that should say something."

I adjust our position by wrapping a blanket around us. "I ain't going nowhere Dara, take that to the bank."

"Maybe if I had more evidence I'd be more sure." She replies.

I say nothing, turning my attention to the screen as the opening credits begin to play. I heard her loud and clear though.

…

"You take good care of that, son." Pop says, nodding toward the content in my hand. "It's a family heirloom."

I nod, twirling the engagement band in my hand before fitting it back into the velvet box it calls home. We sit at the main counter of our family restaurant now, closed for the afternoon Reaping Day festivities. The illustrious Celosia Vale manages to make an appearance, arriving back from her northern expedition just this morning. As we eat lunch, we watch on the holovision as various Districts out east skirmish with Peacekeepers. Instead of reaping those who 'deserve it', this quell seems to be reaping people who are _contributing_ to Panem's betterment more than offending. Doctors, Businesspeople, wives and husbands, something tells me they didn't think this Quell through, or did they?

"Where does this leave _us_?" I ask her, even though the answer to me seems obvious. Seven has been in enough shit since the election anyway.

Celosia shrugs. "All we can do is ride the wave. If all _that_ is happening out there, the PK's here will just tighten the clamp. It's not like we can do much of anything."

"We can't just _'coast it out'_ anymore Celosia." Ma murmurs, her eyes glued to the holovision. "Maybe your schmoosing with the Capitol may have changed your perspective…"

"Schmoosing? I call it _surviving_ Miss. I know that more than anyone." Celosia retorts. She makes an extra show of flashing her cybernetic prosthetic arm. "In this world of ours, all we can do is exist within our parameters. Every Victor knows that all of this is a show, each of us have different ways of adapting to their role."

"How are _you_ feeling, Everett?" Ma asks me.

I shrug, crossing my arms. "I'm not sure how to feel…we've gained and lost equally."

Maybe things would've been different if Landry won. The power is great, the adulation is great. I don't regret my decisions that lead me here. But Landry…not a day goes by where she isn't in my thoughts.

"Maybe this Quell might be enough to inspire change?" Pop pipes up.

"Maybe, but not through the means everyone fantasizes over…we tried that twice." Celosia replies. "This is _us_ , this is Panem _now._ All we can do is, as I said; exist around what's currently in place. We could be like District 4 or District 3…or we could be like the outliers. I'm not sure about you three, but I think I know where I want Seven to be on the spectrum."

There's a gentle knock at the door. Before anyone could get up and receive him our Escort, Connor Boykin, enters on his own accord. He was a 'plain' man outwardly, sporting a stylish navy suit and rainbow tie. His personality however…is another story

"Hello hello my lovelies!" he chirps, heaving his rainbow-colored parasol over his back. "I'm sorry to intrude but it's time to get this show on the road!"

…

"Welcome, welcome everyone to the One Hundredth Hunger Games!" Connor cheers while applauding into the microphone. He only receives mostly silence from the crowd, but this doesn't perturb him in the slightest. "I'm quite happy that you all are on your best behavior for the cameras, unlike certain other regions in this grand nation of ours, ha ha!"

I glance around the square, taking in the armed and masked Peacekeepers that pepper the square. Celosia was right, due to the news showcasing what was going on and the subtle show of force by the PK's, it seems that Seven has decided to hold their tongues. After the film they play, Connor returns back to the stage.

"Okey-dokey, onto the selection of our tributes for this year's Hunger Games and Fourth Quarter Quell…you guys already know what I'm gonna say." He pulls the lever now, twirling his parasol as the screen randomizes and pauses on… "Our female tribute is Verona Kinsley!"

As my heart suddenly leaps to my throat, Celosia caresses her temples. "…Oh for the love of…"

The groans and exclamations of the audience are palpable as Ms. Kinsley makes her way to the stage under heavy peacekeeper guard. Summer camp, the Pre-Reaping Festival, babysitting, Ms. Kinsley did it all. Even to me and Landry.

Suddenly, from all four sides children rush through the aisles, through the Peacekeepers into Ms. Kinsley's arms. They all varied in age. The Peacekeepers are cautious to use force, allowing them to embrace her for a minute. Ms. Kinsley releases her hold, waving to them before being escorted up the stage. Even now she continues to blow kisses and wave somberly to people in the crowd.

Connor makes a show of dabbing his eyes with his pocket square. "What a show of passion! Well, let's see what the male pool has to offer…" pulling the lever, it scrambles and stops on another familiar face. "Our male tribute is Chris Samara!"

The cameras cut to Chris as he clamps the shoulders of his co-workers. He was a lumberjack, or involved with the trade due to his coveralls and orange plaid shirt. Offering a shrug and a shaky grin, he makes his way toward the stage only to be stopped by a little boy who clutches his leg. Two women embrace him before the Peacekeepers coax him back toward the stage.

"Two relatively popular people selected as tribute, very good! A little birdy tells me that this'll come in handy in the future! Until then, please give a round of applause to Verona Kinsley and Chris Samara!"

If looks could kill, Connor would be convulsing on stage.

Connor smoothes down his comb over. "Well then, happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor! Shake hands you two!"

They do what their told, pumping each other's hand before being escorted into the Justice Building. The crowd has to be dispersed under the coaxing of Peacekeepers. It was like any other reaping in any other year. Would I want it to be otherwise, sure…but like Celosia says, we've seen the results of that too many times to expect any other outcome.

"So now what?" I say, joining Celosia as we follow the other bigwigs up the steps.

"Now we let the leaves fall where they may." She replies. "We do what we can and if we're lucky, we have _three_ of us and the District is happier than it is now."

"And if that doesn't turn out to be the case?" I ask with a quirked brow.

She shakes her head. "I don't think I wanna imagine it."


	14. D8: A Author and A Factoryhand

_**A/N**_ : Thanks Shiro annnnnnnnnnnnd Amazing.

* * *

 _ **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **District 8: An Renowned Author and A Mindful Factoryhand**_

* * *

 **Alana Oskoii, 58  
District 8 Female  
May 6th, 2163 (HG 100)**

 _"…And because of that incident and ongoing rioting, the Ministry of Districts' Affairs warns Capitol citizens against unnecessary idling when in the textile district…which is quite peculiar because in lighter news, authors and literature aficionados are flocking to District 8 this weekend for the 145th Annual Lancaster Prize Awards Ceremony! Although there are many facets, all eyes are fixed on the fiction category as –"_

While I prep for the evening's festivities, the news is interrupted by a video call notification. With a tap of a button from the remote, the annoyed image of Ayn Cameron takes up the holoscreen on the island kitchen table.

 _"Girl where have you been, don't you check your messages!?"_ Ayn screeches jittery down the line in her Capitol accent. Ayn is a very punctual woman; I imagine that most people in her line of work have to be.

"I'm sorry Ayn," I reply, placing my turnovers into the oven. "I left my communicuff upstairs. Besides, it's games night! You know how invested I am in that."

She shakes her head and makes a show of waving me off. "No no no…forget _games night,_ the defining moment of your life is happening _tomorrow_! Are you ready?"

I smile, offering a slight shrug. The Lancaster Prize ceremony is tomorrow. Anybody who's _somebody_ in the writing world will be there to celebrate all things literature! When Ayn told me the ceremony was being held _here_ in Eight of all places sounded too good to be true. Is it a sign from the Gods or pure _coincidence_? I'm jaded, yet _elated_ all at the same time.

"I'm not holding my breath Ayn…" I reply, pointedly. Three spots were up for grasp, but there were plenty of heavy hitters being floated around.

"Girl, you are a _shoe in_. Everyone in the Writer's Guild, including the BoD's, are absolutely _ecstatic_ about _When The Songbirds Cry!"_

"More ecstatic than Marcia Quinby's ' _Paramour'?"_ the rabidly popular erotica came out five years ago, taking women _everywhere_ by storm nationwide. It was abruptly censored once it gained traction, citing 'promotion of infidelity' and 'obscenity', only to be cleared in December last. It's ironic given what the Capitol allows and doesn't.

" _Paramour_ is its own gem, baby. When it pertains to your masterpiece however, there's a songbird in every housewife across the nation!"

"We'll see if that's the case, wont we?"

"You humble yourself _waaay_ too much, girl." Ayn replies, clucking her tongue. "I'll come over tomorrow morning to give you more deets, _toodle-oo!"_ As Ayn's face dissipates back into the late-afternoon news, I can't help but wonder how this good fortune came so quickly. If I were to pass off my life story to any other woman, they'd flounder for sure.

Within an hour's time, my children Marcel and Darcelle and her boyfriend Ryler are over for our weekly games night at my place. Its nights like these where we take a break from our busy schedules and regroup as a family. With food and good times abound I decided to take a break from the board games and cards and instead investing in a hologame table, Ordering the gadget from District 3 last week. With the appearance of a typical circular table, the contraption comes with a series of holotape games to enjoy. We settle on _Command & Conquer. _

"I could've sworn I had you there…" Darcelle frowns, watching as my defensive turrets mop up the rest of her tanks and soldiers.

"Gee, that was _some_ _alliance_ we had there…" I deadpan, glowering at my daughter. "I'll be sure to never team up with you again."

As Darcelle blows a raspberry in reply, Marcel reclines into his seat. "All this scheming and taking of territory has me beat. How about we take a breather then continue?"

"You can't hold off the inevitable…" Ryler coos mockingly, gesturing to his portion of the map. He's encroaching pretty deep into Marcel's territory.

"Don't you worry about me Ryler, I got something cooking up."

"It'd better be good, for your sake." Ryler counters, smirking as Darcelle giggles and lays her head on his shoulder.

"So, Ryler..." I muse, swirling my drink in my tumbler. "When do you plan on making an honest woman out of my daughter?"

Darcelle flushes beet red as Ryler chuckles. " _Mom_ …"

" _What_? So many young people marry right out of the gate. It's been what, a year, two years? You guys should be more than ready, no?"

I receive no answer, nothing other than the nervous chuckles of Ryler, Marcel's grin and Darcelle's dagger-like eyes glaring into my soul. "Mom…"

With a sip of the remainder of his drink, Ryler begins to stand up.

"Don't mind me; I'm going to step outside for a bit." He taps his communicuff. "My brother just got cleared from the hospital, y'know because of the explosion. I gonna check up on him." With a kiss on Darcelle's forehead, he's gone out of the basement and up the steps.

"Whaat…?" I say, rolling my eyes at Darcelle's continued glaring and shaking of her head. "Maybe now he'll act _quicker_."

"Ugh…"

"Anyways…now that Ryler is preoccupied, I've been meaning to get your opinion on a certain event coming up." Marcel says, looking at me. "How are you feeling?"

Marcel, Marcel, Marcel…always worrying about his mother. I let out something along the lines of a laugh and a cry, making my voice hoarse. It's funny how everything seems to line up. Tomorrow marks eighteen years since that dreadful night, the inspiration for S _ongbird's Cry_ , the reason for all my success. All thanks to _Marcel_ , my brave and handsome Marcel.

"How are _you_ feeling is the better question to ask, how are _both of_ _you_ feeling?" I croak, rubbing Darcelle's shoulder as she embraces me, her annoyance about my intrusion all but gone.

His face hardening, Marcel shakes his head. "…I _don't_ regret it, not one bit. If I didn't do anything, if I just _stood there…"_

"We'd all be dead." Darcelle Finishes, her gaze fixated on the wall in front of her.

"And this book wouldn't have touched the hearts of hundreds women who went through the same thing." I add.

Maybe this isn't all coincidence. Maybe all this was _meant_ to happen.

…

Our car stops right in front of the venue for this year's awards ceremony – a theatre. Besides the occasional fashion event or anything to do with the Games, I've never seen the central city so busy in my life. Used to fan meets and signings for a year now, I fare better than my children who appear overwhelmed as the crowds cheer my name and applaud with fervor as we traverse the red carpet. It still is quite overwhelming, having hundreds of fans chant your name because they enjoy what you do. It's flattering.

"Alright, alright, give the lady some room!" yells Ayn, shoving away the microphones the press shoves our way. "Save the questions for the book signings just inside the doors there!"

"There she is, Alana Oksoii, author of _When The Songbirds Cry!"_ calls a familiar Newsman. "With over one million copies sold, women all over Panem are praising her work. Ms. Oskoii, how are you feeling this evening?"

"I feel…like a _victor_!" I exclaim into the microphone with a smile.

" _Ha ha ha,_ and a _victor_ she may become tonight when the literature awards are announced. Good luck Ms. Oskoii!"

Once in the foyer, there were dozens upon dozens of kiosks for the authors to receive their admirers before the ceremony itself. The kiosk Ayn directs me too was just as claustrophobic as the red carpet was. If it weren't for the Peacekeepers standing guard, I would've been swamped with rabid fans shoving their copies into my face. One group manages to reach me first.

"Hello Ms. Oskoii, I'm Ginny and we're with the youth wing of the Panemian Women's League?" says the lead woman.

"Ah yes, the PWL…" I ponder.

"Yes, I just wanted to say on behalf of the Women's League, you are a godsend and inspiration to women nationwide!" the first woman continues.

The second leaguer nods. "Although we espouse humbleness to ones significant other, like a woman in Panem ought to…"

"Not everything is peachy behind closed doors." The third leaguer finishes. "You bring that to light, and we respect you for that. With that being said, could you please sign our copies?"

"Sure thing, ladies. Although I'm a big proponent of femininity, I don't support the blind following of your husband _just because_."

They glance at me as if I were speaking a different language.

I giggle softly, signing each of their books. "It's not a crazy concept ladies. Be strong, be _independent_. Sure, a couple can work together to reach a goal, but a woman shouldn't be blindly subservient. Seek your own interests, do what's best for you and your happiness before all else."

Frowning, they each exchange looks before the lead leaguer turns to me and nods unsurely. "… _Riiight_."

"That goes for all of you too." I say, gesturing to all the young women that gather behind the Leaguers. "Yes there are plenty of rewards when it pertains to raising a family, but don't be confine yourself within those four walls and a roof. Like Velvet, you too can find your inner strength and purpose no matter what age."

After what felt like hours of signing books and engaging with my admirers, I'm whisked into the theatre for the presentations themselves. Having been in close proximity to Capitol bigwigs before, the feeling of awe still remains as I scout out famous faces like Marceline Devereaux, K.J Adams and Percius Naismith. When Ayn gestures to the row in which we were assigned I find myself scooching closer and closer to _the Marcia Quinby._ I make sure to shoot Ayn a shocked glance, to which she replies with a silent and knowing grin. As I turn back, Marcia's eye's are already fixated on me, her hand jutted outward for me to shake.

"So there she is…the coveted Alana Oskoii." She purrs as her ruby-red lips curled into a smile. With her librarian-esque appearance, you'd think Marcia Quinby were a purveyor of almanacs, not _erotica._ It's _unassuming_ , yet fits her so _very well._

"Marcia." I pump her hand in earnest. "I enjoyed _Paramour_ right till _the very last page!"_

Her grin spreads wider. "So I hear from _everyone ever_."

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Bartholomew Lancaster, chairman of the Writer's Guild of Panem!"

We turn our attention to the stage, applauding as Bartholomew Stephens takes microphone. Where Marceline Devereaux is the face of the Hunger Games, Bartholomew Lancaster is the centre of Panem's literature universe

"Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you all to the One Hundred and Forty-Fifth Lancaster Prize Ceremony! How are you all this fine evening?" he smiles, nodding at the applause he receives. "How amazing is it we could come so far from the ashes of a dying continent? It all started somewhere in what is now District 10, in which a young woman, my relative Alix Lancaster, meticulously documented her experiences and the experiences of others around her, compiling them into a compendium – Birth of a Nation – that would live on in Panem's lexicon for years to come. And so, if the presenters could come on up and announce the categories for fiction - Ithaca E. Jordan and Cipher B. Lyon!"

"We aren't so different, you and I." Marcia says over the applause.

"Is that so?"

"I'd like to think." She replies with a nod. "Our content prompts people to be free of arbitrary binds society places on them. However there's one thing that seems to nag at me…"

"What's that?"

"What _they_ think about our work, more so _you_ rs than mine." She says, tapping my arm. "Which is scarier, being in the Capitol espousing controversial work, or in a _District?"_

My face scrounges into a frown. I've yet to hear about any controversy regarding my writing. What's so controversial about empowering Panem's women? Before I could carry on the conversation, my attention is focused back onto the stage, as the screen as the fiction medal appears. To my left, Darcelle grips my hand and I return the gesture with equal force.

"…And so, the finalists for the Lancaster Prize 'fiction' category are…" Ithaca says as Cipher slips her an envelope, retrieving its contents. "" _Paramour_ " by Marcia T. Quimby…this steamy erotic fiction chronicles the life of young socialite Rochelle Snowdon, as she navigates her whirlwind romance with a peacekeeper!…The second finalist is "Out Of Bounds" by Hiram E. Fellows. A professor and his group of students fight for survival against an unknown force as a trip into a pre-Panem city goes awry! And our final recipient is…Alana S. Oskoii's _"When the Songbird's Cry"_ a story revolving around one woman's resilience against pressuring odds! Come right on up recipients to say a few words!"

I'm surprised I was able to even hear the last part. The cheers are deafening, people are pulling me left, right and center embracing me and touching me…it's all extremely jarring. Somehow, I manage to make my way down the aisle and onto the stage. If it weren't for Cipher's grip on me, I'd faint right here and now.

"So since she's the new girl on the writing scene, we'll allow Ms. Oskoii to deliver a remark or two."

"My message is the same as I say to other groups of people…there's a Velvet in every woman across the nation. Never confine yourself, ladies, never allow someone to dictate your life as they see fit…"

* * *

 _ **Russett Gilmour, 29**_  
 _ **District 8 Male**_  
May 2nd, 2163 (100 HG)

* * *

The mist from the faucet fading, I find myself taking a long look in our bathroom mirror.

"Another day, another dollar…" I say aloud. But how badly do I _want_ that dollar, is the main question. My loving wife, Clarisse, lays her head on my shoulder while her hand lazily caresses my chest. Instinctively, my hand wraps around her swollen midsection. She isn't due for another four months yet she's grown _so big._

"I know things can get a litter terse sweetie. If you ask me, you're doing _just fine_."

"But for how long?" I reply gruffly. " _Gods_ , it's barely the middle of the week and I've filed ten _accident reports_ already…so much for that May Day address, eh?"

"Try and see it it this way Russ, look how many people appreciate the work you do?"

"If it were up to me, I'd have them go appreciate someone else." I snort.

"Yet they appreciate _you, and for good reason."_ She replies, taping my chest with a single finger. "If not you, then who else would care as hard as you do?"

"That's debatable." I smirk.

She plants a kiss on my lips. "Just roll with that thought, it'll help you get through the fatigue. Now go downstairs and get yourself some breakfast. Gen is wondering where her daddy is."

Already dressed for the long day ahead, I make my way downstairs and into the living room. Gen, my pride and joy, bobbles her head side to side while she lies prone on the floor as an episode of _Atticus and Jacoby_ plays on the holovision in front of her. How a kid's show about two brothers, one being a loyalist and another a rebel sympathizer, trying to off each other was approved, I'm not too sure. Keeping up with her latest fad her clothing is a variation of green and purple, the overalls, shirt underneath to the ribbons in her hair – _everything_.

"Good morning, Daddy!" she chirps while standing up, glancing at me with those big blue eyes of hers.

"Hello Gen my darling, my _sweetie pie_ you!" I greet. Lifting her from off the floor and kissing her forehead. "You gonna be good for Daddy while he goes to work?" In typical child fashion she raises a finger to her mouth, smiling while humming out an "Uhhh uh huh….!"

"Yeah right…Now let's see about that breakfast mommy was talking about." I mutter, ruffling her hair while moving towards the dining room table. Clarisse makes the best hotcakes, so I'm delighted to see a plate of them sided with scrambled eggs. Pouring out a cup of coffee, I glance down at her holopad to check out the morning news.

 _"Citizens of Panem both affluent and working-class scramble to secure assets leading up to the Hunger Games' Fourth Quarter Quell beginning this May two-four!"_

Right, their mailing out mandatory attendance letters based on a variety of probabilities…the War, prior tesserae usage. Judging by how heavy Eight was involved in the War, it'll just be a typical reaping but with _adults_ instead of kids on the chopping block…of course. I glance up, watching as Clarisse works away at another dress affixed onto a mannequin. She was quite the seamstress. So exceptional that some luxury company in District 1… _Montgolia_ was it, contracts her to make designs for them. "Looking good so far hon."

"Thank you very much." She replies with a smile. "It seems that Capitol fashion is rubbing off on us regular Joes…I've never gotten so many demands for geometric shapes _ever_."

It wasn't long until a tentative knock came to the door. I open it to find Gilroy on the other end, offering a just as tentative wave of the hand.

"M-Morning Russet," he greets, tipping his flat cap. He looks past me, smiling at Gen and Clarisse. "Hello, ladies!"

"Good morning Gil! I heard about your engagement with Lacey, _congratulations!"_

 _"_ Heh heh, thank you… very much. If it weren't for Russet here, I'd uh…I'd still be a loner, heh."

"The relationship looked obvious to me." I shrug. Gil's a good guy, just quiet and finicky like a mouse. Smart like one too. "You ready to go, Gil?"

He nods rapidly. "Er…yeah, yeah, I'm ready to roll! Heh heh heh."

With a loving goodbye to Clarisse and Gen, we're in my car and on our way to the factory sector to begin our day in earnest. When I was young I remember the sector was barely functioning, playing hide and seek with the other kids among the piles of rubble. Even though the factories are rebuilt, part of me wonders if they scavenged the machinery left over and put them back to use. Parking, we then find ourselves in line for punch in, all under the careful eye of Peacekeepers of course. Despite the hundreds of people who work in this single factory alone, people punch in at a hastened pace lest the Peacekeepers berate you.

"Where were you at the May Day parade, Russ?" asks Gilroy. "I didn't see you with the guys?"

"I was with my wife and kid the whole time, too much people for my liking."

"Ah. So uh what'd you think about the announcement yesterday?" he replies moving with me as we inch closer and closer to the time clock. "We're _unionized_ again…the _Panem Labor Front!_ That's _good_ …right?"

I find myself shrugging while sighing, turning to punch in my numbers. The elections, a political party, _unions_ , it doesn't make a difference. It's all a farce to keep us tamed. "People are still getting hurt, people are still getting nickel and dimed over compensation…look around, look at the _root_." I say lowly, lest there's some pro-Capitol stooge in our ranks. "Is anything about Panem ' _right'_?"

"I guess you're right…" he frowns, punching in his numbers.

"Attention workers of Factory 005, may I have your attention please!" Everyone on the factory floor finds themselves glancing upward as the foreman, Rafferty, stands on a balcony overseeing us peons below.

"Thank you. _Good morning_ Factory 005, I trust you're all doing well." His nasally voice bellows from a microphone. I want to begin by announcing that by the order of the ministry, our daily quota has increased by five percent, so put your backs into it! We should have two hundred units of garments by the end of today by _both_ shifts." Ignoring the protests below, he continues "I imagine that some of you have questions about the new national union. The newsletters should be in your hands by the end of your shift."

Still, the protests continue to grow louder, but the presences of two Peacekeepers that step to either side of the smarmy fat shit of a man are enough to quell some of the noise.

"I don't wanna hear it. If you wanna get _PAID_ , you'll do what you're told. Now get a move on! Close the doors!"

I can't help but shudder as two green blast doors grind together and fuse into one. Originally, they're used as a safeguard to contain chemicals, but _Rafferty_ doesn't like it when our lives pertain to things other than the factory, so he locks them shut sometimes until lunch or when he feels like an even _bigger_ shitbag, until the shift is over _entirely_.

"I hate that man so very much…" Gilroy mutters as we attend to our station, fifth dye processor and conveyor belt.

"Same here bud, same here…" I clap him on the back, which prompts him to jump – a regular thing with Gilroy. "Alright, let's get our day started shall we?"

He nods, retrieving a walkie-talkie from his utility belt. "Hey erm…Judy?"

" _Yep?_!"

"Start the calibration process, how's processor one?"

"Processor one is doing a-ok." She replies.

"How about processor two?"

"Fine!" says the next man, Polyester. This continues uninhibited until we reach processor nineteen out of twenty. "Say uh…we have a problem here with P-19? Maybe Russet could help?"

I motion for the walkie-talkie as Gilroy presses it into my hand. "Russet here, what's the problem?"

"P-19…it was left _running_." The confusion in his voice is thick. "It's hot to the touch; the computer is not responding and _jheeze_! It's spluttering sparks!"

The cloth hasn't even been doled out yet. It's all over _there_. "You don't touch anything." I say quickly, beginning my jog down. "I'll be over there to fix it in a sec."

He lets out a chuckle. "Yeah man…I wouldn't trust anyone else with this OH SHI-"

For a moment, I recalled myself jogging toward processor nineteen. As I jogged, there was a flash of light, followed by a loud and resounding _thump._ Now I find myself on the floor, blinking in and out of conciseness. I blink once, my vision is clear. I blink again, Gilroy's face looms over mine, around him the air painted orange and smoke clouds around us. Gilroy opens his mouth, but _no sound_ comes out. It's only when I take in my surroundings do I realize what's truly going on. To my left a burning figure shuffles to the left and right, waving its appendages as two factoryhands shove it to the ground and slam it with what look like blankets. A few people escape through a ceiling window via a ladder. Before the last man could escape as well, the ladder dislodges, causing the man plummet into the inferno below.

Gilroy says something again, but still no noise comes out. My eyes squint in confusion and my vision flashes white as he strikes me across the cheek. It's only then when things become audible again. Sirens blare, cries of pain ring out mixed in with frenzied shouts.

"Russet, get up, we gotta go!" Before I could reply, Gilroy tugs me upward onto my feet. Like quickly rising to your feet from sleep, I feel groggy and my vision teeters. I point towards the blast door, where dozens of men and women tug desperately in an attempt to open it.

"It _won't_ budge!" cries Judy.

"That's because in an _actual_ emergency, it's designed _not_ to." I reply while stifling a cough. The air is becoming more and more toxic by the _second_.

"What the hell are we supposed to do…we can't stay here!?"

I find myself glancing around frantically. Quickly now, where else could we leave. The people who built this place couldn't have been that stupid to have not had a secondary exi-"

"East wall!" I splutter, pointing. "At the east wall there's an exit…in the direction of the _explosion_."

A man I recognize as Calico snaps his finger. "The door we use for smoke breaks, _of course_ …"

Judy gestures forward. "Well, let's go! I ain't staying here."

In a single line that consisted of dozens, each of us holds each other's shoulders as we navigate through the debris. I say it's nothing but luck that we move through the factory floor without incident as we reach the exits in question. The doors open without resistance, letting in the blinding daylight. I quickly motion everyone through until there was no one but me.

" _Hello_ ," cries a child's voice, a _familiar_ child's voice _._ "Someone _please_ , help us!"

Hugging the wall, I move at least ten steps toward the sound of her voice until I happen across young Madysn Voldock. Her ghost-white face and hair caked with sludge causes her to blend in with the toxic fumes that swirl around us. It's only her eyes and slightly soiled overalls that I notice her.

"Maddy we gotta go. It's not safe at all." I yearn, reaching down to clasp her shoulder. "Where's your old ma-"

Bunched up at her knees lay _Mr. Voldock,_ a molten beam of steel crushing his hips. It's only by the Gods he's still alive let alone awake.

"…A little help… Russ?" he pleads and pants with blood stained lips.

Shaking her head, Madysn babbled "I…I…I _please_ …?"

"Shh…it's alright, I'll help him okay?" I console. I quickly reel backward from the beam as I quick as I grasped it. It was like touching a _stove. "Shit!"_

"Please try again Mister Gilmour!" Madysn roars desperately, jostling my arm.

"Okay…Okay…" sucking in a breath, I go back at it. Ignoring the searing pain I try my best to hoist the beam, but Mister Voldock's wails of pain prompt me to immediately cease my attempt.

"…Russ, take Maddy and get outta here!"

Maddy shakes her head rapidly. "WHAT, NO! I'll try then!"

"Maddy… …" gritting through the pain, Mr. Voldock's face turns stern as he tugs the young girl downward. They share a few words before his grip on her overalls releases. "Now GO, _NOW_!"

I glance at the crestfallen girl, her bangs now shrouding her eyes as I tug her along. "C'mon Maddy, we gotta go…I'm _so sorry_."

Within minutes we find ourselves in an open field with the rest of the workers. It's chaos out here just as it was inside. People console each other and tend to the wounded while others run around screaming in search of their loved ones. In the nearby distance, the sirens of fire engines could be heard approaching.

"There he is!" bellows Gilroy.

"RUSS, RUSS!" Turning around I'm quickly embraced by Clarisse, something I return _tenfold_. We soothe each other with fervent kisses before she grips me by the cheeks.

"I thought you were _dead_ Russ! I saw the alert on the television and I thought you were _dead!_ " she babbles, her eyes wild with worry.

" No, no, no…" I reply, nodding off toward Madysn who continues to gaze longingly at the inferno. "I heard her cry out so…"

"OH SHIT!" someone cries, pointing toward the factory. Just as Gilroy and I turn, my face is kissed with immense wind and heat as the factory erupts in a ball of fire. The scene looked as if I were glancing at it through hell-colored glasses.

"Where is he, where is that son of a bitch?!" a man calls out.

We find ourselves gravitating towards a mass crowd of onlookers. Curious, I sift through the spectators as thwacking and cries of pain could be heard. Rubbing past one more onlooker, I watch as Polyester and Judy wail on Rafferty with their fists and legs. One left hook prompts the battered foreman to topple to the floor as Judy over him, snaking his hands around his throat.

"Hey…Judy…Stop!" I yell, shoving her aside as I put space between Rafferty and them.

"What the fuck Russ?!" cries someone from the crowd.

"Hold on, hear me out! He's _not_ worth it." I say aloud, jabbing a finger to the unconscious man. "They wonder why we're unhappy, why we rebel…HE is just a representation of the main problem. If we want CHANGE, he isn't the man we pick a bone with."

It seems I'm reaching them, as I spot a few nods of approval. Just look at the year were in. I find myself nodding along _too_. If there was any time to make our issues heard it was _now_.

* * *

 _ **Malakai Binder, 28**_  
 _ **Victor of the 87th Hunger Games**_  
May 24th

I bop Addison on the nose as she lets out a happy gurgle. Its odd how life works out sometimes…Just three years ago, I was at my wits end. Although as Eight's youth – now adults – continue to die year after year with little results, _you_ and your mother keep me grounded. The bloodshed will continue, but at least I have you two.

"Everything I do, I do it for you baby girl…" I coo, planting a kiss on her forehead as she gives me a gummy smile in return. Esther returns from the living room, a soft grin on her face as she joins us at the table.

"They cut off the footage from the outlying districts…" she says, her voice tinged with concern. "How do you think it's going to be out there?"

"What, with the factoryhands rioting and the piling grievances? Not good, not good _at all_." I reply with a shake of the head. "They _executed_ all of Eight's important rebels, so the selections are up in the air."

"I don't think they thought this Quell through properly." She mutters, taking Addison from me.

"No, they knew exactly what they were doing. It's all ploy to sow division locally among ourselves and nationwide. Add the Second Rebellion on top of that exacerbates the wedge even more." I reply with a bitter shake of the head. What I wonder is how this divide and pent up rage will manifest itself after two failed civil wars. "Since you're not eligible, I want you to take the baby to your parents. They're far away from the district centre that the violence shouldn't reach you."

Smiling that sad smile of hers once more, Esther's snakes her hand around my ear and then my hair while slowly shaking her head. "Us, us, us…I've never once heard you speak about… _you._ What's going on in that brain of yours, Malakai?"

Gently clasping her hand, I plant a kiss on it. "The usual…trying to shoulder Eight's chances as its sole Victor. I try and try…but you already know how that's been going."

"All you can do is _try_. Once the gong goes off, it's out of your control."

"I tell myself that every year…it never seems to want to stick."

Esther opens her mouth to reply, but a stern knocking is enough to get us on our feet and towards the front door. Opening the door, we come face to face with two armed and helmeted Peacekeepers.

"Mr. Binder, your presence is required at the Hall of Justice for today's Reaping Day ceremony." The lead Peacekeeper says. Glancing behind them, trucks curl around the cul-de-sac. In one of them, Eight's escort Janice Chung waves from out of the back hatch. Turning back to Esther and Addison, I offer her a hug and a kiss. "Remember what I said. My keys are on the front table."

She nods. "Be safe."

"You too." I reply, turning towards the men in white armor. I gesture towards their truck. "Let's get going, shall we?"

Things on the street are much worse than I thought. Every street we drive down, there are at least a dozen burning husks of cars strewn around, or a squad of Peacekeepers holding a group of people on their stomachs. More and more, I think about what this year's Games mean outside the typical drill.

"I'm sorry we didn't get limousines this year." Janice laments, scrolling through her communicuff. "It seems that Eight is on edge this year, throwing everything off kilter!"

"It's alright Janice…just do you job and I'll find a way of doing mine."

"Here's hoping I don't get a brick to the face…" she replies, giggling.

When we arrive at the Central Square, things are even more chaotic. As the last of the attendees are scanned in, the spectators around them are kept at bay by Peacekeepers on foot and horse as they scream obscenities and chants. Smartly so, inside the Justice building were members of Eight's upper crust, watching the scuffling from a wide holovision screen projected onto a wall. Judging by the way they were seated on chairs typically seen _outside,_ they weren't planning on moving anytime soon. I turn to a suited man with salt-and-pepper hair and browline glasses who consults with Peacekeepers and officials alike.

"Governor Moore, what's going on?"

"They ain't goin' out there, that's what." He replies, "I don't blame 'em. I'm damn near terrified of goin' out there _myself_."

A female Aide taps him on the shoulder. "Governor Moore, we're ready to begin."

He glances at me with enlarged eyes. Clapping my shoulder, he says "Wish me luck, son."

When he gets outside to deliver the opening remarks, I'm surprised that the protestations of the surrounding crowd cannot be heard. As I look outside the window you can see their hatred and hear their screams. When Governor Moore speaks on screen, his voice is the only thing that can be heard.

Shortly, it's Janice and I's turn to take the stage. With a fake smile plastered on her face, Janice's flora dress ruffles as she quickly sashays toward the microphone and taps it multiple times.

"Good afternoon, citizens of District 8! Welcome to the-"

A group of people rush the bottom steps of the stage, holding out a banner of a President Kane quote. _"Panem I fear has simply lost its founding way…we need to return to this."_

"IMPROVE OUR QUALITY OF LIFE, WE AIN'T JUST YOUR REAPING STOCK, WE'RE PEOPLE TOO!" One of them yells, only to be quickly trounced and subdued by Peacekeepers.

"…Fourth Quarter Quell and the One Hundredth Hunger Games…my my how far we've come!" Janice continues without missing a beat. "Before we get on with the ceremony itself, we have a brand-new film brought to you from you guessed it, all the way from the Capitol!"

Even as the Capitol film rolls, people continue to boo en masse and yell things such as "REMEMBER FACTORY 005!" and "BLOOD, SWEAT, TEARS AND NOW OUR LIVES AND FOR WHAT – NOTHING!" the Peacekeepers are quick to beat and subdue any and all who speak out. By the end of the film, there were significant pockets of people missing from segments of the crowd.

There's _nothing_ I can do. Even if we did find a way to rise up, what about Esther and Addison?

"Alright, let's get straight into the selection of our tributes. Let's switch things up and start with the men?" she says, grunting as she pulled the randomizer lever. The screen stops on pudgy looking man with a reddened nose. "Franklin Rafferty!"

From my seat, I watch as a man from the forties section limps into the aisle. If the news was correct, he is the man responsible for the factory explosion back at the beginning of the month…alongside the senseless deaths of dozens and dozens of people. Under heavy Peacekeeper guard, the crowd jeers him. Even though his face is battered black and blue, you can see how distraught he is.

He's almost at the steps when he, almost instantly, swipes at a Peacekeepers holster and removes his pistol. Before the Peacekeepers could open fire on him, he places the pistol into his mouth and fires. The crowd exclaims as a violet ray bursts from the back of his head, prompting the doomed man to crumple to the ground and his crutches to clatter beside him.

I can hear Janice bleating out a pained groan as Peacekeepers quickly hoist the body and carry it aside. Through the confusion, she pulls the lever once more. "Our next tribute is…Russet Gilmour!"

Out from the twenties comes a young guy roughly my age in worn jeans and a red shirt. Someone who appears to be his wife appears from the opposite end of the aisle but a motion from him prompts the woman to stay. He exchanges what appears to be a smile before joining us on the stage.

Without a word, Janice pulls the lever for the female tribute. When the face appears on screen, the entire square is shocked. All chatter of protest stops, only empty silence remains. "Al…Alana Oskoii!?"

The cameras instantly focus on a very shocked Alana as she closes her eyes and attempts to gain her bearings as she strolls out of her aisle and begin to walk toward the stage, dressed to the nines in a floral dress, pearl necklace and bubble flip. She plasters a smile on her face in an attempt to block out the screams of despair from someone who appears to be her son, but it fails as the smile slips into a frown. First, it's her daughter that tackles her into a hug, then her son. Alana's frown breaks down into full blown crying as all three of them begin wailing, clinging to each other as the Peacekeepers descend on them.

"…Well, there you have it, District Eight." Announces Janice lamely as the Peacekeepers continue to escort the famed author onto the stage. "Your tributes for the One Hundredth Hunger Games, Alana Oskoii and Russett Gilmou – _oh_!"

True to her concerns, Janice finds herself dodging a multitude of items as the crowd surges forward, not before Peacekeepers rush to meet them head on. Clutching her by the arm, I'm quick to rush her off the stage and into the Justice Building proper as the Peacekeepers do the tributes. As the grand doors slam, the screams of the crowd and the responding gunfire still manages to leak through.

I crash into a nearby seat, letting out a breath I didn't even know I held. _All you can do is try, all you can do is try, all you can do is try…_ I don't think 'trying' will cut it this time around.


	15. D9: A Mother and A Jailbird

_**A/N:**_ Thank you Elim and Bobothebear

 _ **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **District 9: A Attentive Mother and A Resolute Jailbird**_

 ** _Hermia Rhodes 52  
District 9 Female  
_**May 1st, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

 _"And next up is a float representing Fargo-Rhodes Wine and Spirits! For twenty years, Fargo-Rhodes has served our community and Panem with premium drinks and fond memories. Fargo-Rhodes – from the earth, to the table!"_

"And you said you've been working on that float for _how_ long?" asks Kernel with a raised brow. Sat on a bed of grain was our beer in one of our mugs bearing the company logo. The float was pretty decent, as we weren't looking to win any awards – the visibility would suffice enough.

Smirking, I answer "About forty-eight hours straight, give or take."

If the tailor raised that brow any higher it'd fall off. " _Forty-eight_ hours…?"

"I had a power nap or two..." I trill in reply, shrugging. "Besides, the young people were a good help."

"I'm surprised no one is saying anything about the children passing out alcohol…" he says, nodding as some of my co-op students happily toss bottles into a receptive crowd from out of baskets hung around their shoulders.

I stifle my chuckles with a hand to the mouth. "…I didn't pay that much thought, to be honest. They _did_ have a hand at brewing it, so I suppose it isn't _that much_ of a stretch to have them distributing it."

Kernel motions for and catches one himself. "Apricot flavor, eh?"

"I thought I'd try something new." I say, watching as he screws off the cap and takes a rather long sip. "…Annnnd?"

Licking his lips, the wide smile and nod is all I need to know. "Good, because there are _plenty_ of packs on sale back at the brewery. Panem knows they'll sell."

"It's _Worker's Day_ , one of the only times of the year to actually _'let loose'_. Of course they will."

I give a lopsided nod in reply. It _was_ Worker's Day after all, where the Capitol actually makes a _show_ of caring for their peons with a day off. Everyone from the surrounding sectors is flocking to the city for the annual Worker's Day Parade. And with more people comes more income for me and those under my charge, so most employees are usually eager to volunteer to work the day. Although they constantly talk about their cherishment of us, I never seem to see evidence of it.

"It seems like every year, what happened continues to fade away…" Says Kernel as we watch the procession continue down Main Street. Lighting up a cigarette, he offers me one. He nods as I decline him with a wave of a hand. "Everything seems so _false_. We wouldn't have stood for this back in the day."

"That's exactly what it was, ' _back in the day'."_ I reply. The past is the past, no use longing for something for something that was apparently doomed from the start. "Back when the appetite – the _hunger_ , was there. I guess it wasn't enough. Unless you fancy being an outcast, all we can do is continue living our lives."

Kernel doesn't seem to agree, shaking his head while blowing out excess smoke. "Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it…knowing what we know about them. Who knows, maybe they'll reap me – finish off the job. Maybe then I wouldn't have to worry no more."

I clap him on the shoulder. "Keep your head up. Maybe things will change."

With the procession all but over, Kernel and I part ways. Walking amongst the patrons, it doesn't take long to reach the east end of Main Street where Fargo-Rhodes is located. It's smack-dab in the historic district, so the building retains its red-bricked façade. Inside, as I expected, was fairly busy. Walking further into the sit-in portion of the brewery, I greet the many old-timers and out-of-towners alike chatting quietly amongst themselves over a cold pint or buying a case for the road. On my way to the counter, I find myself glancing over to a photo of Graham and me. It wasn't a typical romantic photo, as we were in the thick of the War. But it was _our_ romance all the same, no matter how brief.

 _If only you were here to lend a hand, Graham._

 _"_ Hello, Mom. Business looks good!"

I smile as I register the soft-spoken voice. Graham may not be here, but he left me plenty of hands to keep me sane – _two_ pairs to be exact. One of them, Felicity, pulls me into an embrace as soon as I turn to face her. I immediately return the gesture, stepping back as the bump in her stomach creates significant space between us.

"How are you, how's the _baby? You've gotten so big since I saw you last."_ I soothe as I caress her cheek. Smiling, she reaches into her dress pocket and plants a photograph into my hand – an _ultrasound_ more like it. "What is it, do you know?" I ask, glancing at her and back to the photo.

"I'm keeping it a secret." She replies with a wink. "I think you and Esther will be delighted either way."

"Oh I know I will." Especially when so many people who share my background are still broken till this day, I'm elated that life just kept on moving for me. "Now where's Isaac?"

She jabs a finger towards a booth where her husband engages in lively discussion with Verne, both local aldermen of the District 9 Council. "He's politicking as per usual. Being an alderman is a 24/7 thing for him, as you know."

"It'd be better if we stayed _together_ , if you asked me." Verne says.

Isaac shakes his head. "I disagree. It'd _better_ pass…I'm tired of those _idiots_ in Duluth having all the say."

"What about those idiots in Duluth?" I butt in, taking a seat beside Verne as the two men offer me a smile.

"Hey Mom, you're the goddess of common sense here." Isaac greets. "You know Proposition 35 right?"

"Mhm." I nod. Word around town and other settlements here out west is the growing dissatisfaction of services being spread out too thin. People are dissatisfied enough to propose to split Nine in half. Duluth goes one way, while Bismarck, Fargo and the other settlements go their own way.

" _Well_ , drop us one of your golden eggs of truth here."

"Splitting the east and west into two separate Districts seems like a giant can of worms," I begin. "I would also say keep it as is."

That was the bipolar opposite of what he wanted to hear, that's for sure. While Isaac shakes his head, Verne sports a smile of triumph as Felicity asks me "Why's that?"

"Why split Nine up? We'd only fight for even more resources." I reply. "Duluth processes for eastern Panem, while we process for the west."

"So you enjoy one part of Nine dictating the lives of the other?" asks Isaac with an annoyed tone in his voice.

"That's why we elected _you_ boys, to represent us while you make the trip down there? _Besides_ , you guys switch between Duluth and Bismarck all the time. It's only eight hours away. It's not like they have the Justice Building, we do. They just have the bodies to invoke changes they want. I guess that's the trade off."

"You guys are something else."

" _Thank you_ Hermia." Verne says, tipping his flat cap. "Folks already have it hard enough as it is. No use making life more complicated. In fact, one of these days I'm going to invite you to a meeting so you can school these knuckleheads in person."

Speaking of 'hard enough', our attention shifts to the front door as Esther barges in, causing the bell attached to it to ring violently. My other daughter was worse for wear, with blood oozing from her temple and _soot_ peppering her plaid shirt. Thankfully the store for the most part is empty – bar some regulars who quickly take their leave.

"Do I look that bad?" she snorts darkly. "You should see the _other guys_."

"Esther…what happened?" asks Felicity, quickly moving toward her sister.

" _Isn't it obvious?"_ she retorts with a toothy smile, clasping Felicity's hand before she could examine her wound.

"No, it's not. Or else we wouldn't be asking you." I reply, leveling my voice. "Esther, _what happened?"_

" _Well_ …one of my good friends decided – for good reason – to voice his… _dissatisfaction_ with today's festivities." She seethes, her voice tinged with a faux sweetness as she moves to the front counter. Unceremoniously, she hops the counter and pours a draft for herself all while Timothy – one of my employees, watches on in confusion. "Because, what's the point of having a day for workers when most of us barely scrape along? So _anyways_ , some _stuffed shirt_ overheard our conversation and decided to mouth off to a PK about it. Lo and behold, there's a big brawl. One of those loyalist stooges tosses a _rock_ and hits me in the temple." She drinks the contents of the mug in one go, sighing as she wipes the foam from her mouth. "If the PK's didn't come, I probably would've killed him, lucky for him."

She's not kidding about the killing part. She's living out my twenties to a tee. I'm not sure what happened to Felicity. For the short while that I knew him, she best resembles Graham.

"Come and sit down, so I can take a look at that gash." I turn to the young gentleman who often runs the counter. "Timothy, do you mind passing me the first-aid kit, thank you. Esther, this may sting a little…"

She hisses as I dab the wet cotton along her cut. I fear I may have only just made her more upset. "I swear…how people can be so complacent!? I guess people around here _like_ earning _crumbs_. Gods forbid you lose a limb or something, and then you're _really_ shit outta luck…"

I sigh. "Esther…"

"You know…one of these days shit's _really_ gonna kick off and they're not gonna like it. And I'll be right there when –"

" _Esther!"_ I hiss harshly, turning her head toward me by the chin. "I don't wanna hear that talk in here or _anywhere_ for that matter."

" _What_ , you too?" she scoffs, shaking her head. You'd think that after all you've been through, all you've seen-"

"That's is exactly _why_ I want you to _pipe down_ and keep yourself in check." I interject. "I don't like the way things are any more than you do…"

"Then why clam up!? Not saying anything outright is just as _bad_ as going along with the _status quo_."

I shake my head. She really was her mother's child. "Outright uproar _doesn't_ work. We saw this play out _twice_ now. Change will come soon, it's inevitable. In what form, I'm not sur-"

"By _soon_ , I hope you mean within a couple of days because this is _bullshit._ You know it, _they_ know it, _everyone_ knows it!" she seethes, jutting a finger towards myself, then to Verne, Felicity and Isaac. Shrugging off Felicity's hand, she staggers to the door.

"Where are you going now?" I ask impatiently, watching as she stops and pivots backward. She gestures to portions of her shirt, which appear as if it were caught in a fire.

"As you can see by my shirt, one of my friends was shot when the bucket-heads attempted to break up our tussle. Last time I checked they stuffed him into an ambulance." As she swings the door open and leaves, the last thing I catch is "I'm going to the hospital to check up on him."

"Felicity, Isaac…" I begin while massaging my temples. "Do you mind?"

Isaac's already on the ball, for his suit jacket is halfway on and he's already started toward the door. "Don't worry, we're on it."

The bi-polar opposite of her twin sister, Felicity lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry Mom."

"Oh I'm not." I reply listlessly. "This isn't the first or _last_ time I'll face her wrath again."

A light smile appears on her lips. "I'll try and calm her down, okay?"

As I watch them leave, it's as if fifty pounds were relieved from off my shoulders.

"Is everything okay Ms. Rhodes?" Timothy asks from the front counter, while other employees watch on with equal concern.

"Everything is fine, Tim, thanks for your concern. You know how family can be sometimes." I reply. "How about you all head home and spend the rest of your day with the family? I'll pay you guys as if you were here for another hour."

Watching as they shuffle to the back to gather their belongings, I turn around to find Verne chuckling to himself.

"What are you laughing about over there?" I inquire, slipping into a seat in front of him.

"Oh nothing…just admiring her spunk is all." he drawls, watching the mug in his hand as he swirls its contents. "If only more young people had her spirit…"

I roll my eyes and recline backward. "We'll just have to see within a couple days' time, wont we?"

* * *

 ** _Lars Malatic, 36  
District 9 Male  
_**May 9th, 2163 (HG 100)

We're playing a game of dominoes with the radio on when John glances upward and lets out a gasp. He turns off the radio, garnering the attention of everyone else.

"Hey guys lookie here…Fresh meat for the grinder." says John, giggling while pointing beyond the fence. He stands up now, leaping onto the table and almost running our game to the dismay of myself and the others.

"For Panem sake Johnny, take it _easy_!" Roland grumbles, clutching his pieces.

Clifford places a hand on Roland's shoulder. "Let 'em be, this is the _highlight_ of his day." He says, gazing at the twenty-one-year-old with an amused smirk.

"HEY EVERYONE," Johnny announces aloud now, garnering the attention of the other inmates. "WE GOT FRESH MEAT COMIN' IN!"

And right on cue, the sirens spaced throughout the yard ring out in unison, so does the devious chuckles of those listening below.

"How about we put our game on pause and give the unfortunates a big Pyreford Penitentiary welcome?" says Clifford.

With a round of shrugs, we march down the hill and join the mass of hollering and jeering inmates that begin to congregate at the intake fence. Just outside, a blue bus with black and white checkered sides rolls to a stop. The Peacekeepers, positioned on the upper rafters and watchtowers, cock their guns and keep a watchful eye as the bus' doors open. First out is Captain Weaver, toting an imposing shotgun as She motions for the new inmates to disembark. With their heads hung low, a line of shackled and disheveled men make their way off the bus.

"Welcome to the madhouse gentlemen, glad to have ya!" jeers one inmate.

"You don't wanna come in here!" hollers another.

"Hey hot stuff. It's _about time_ we got some new lookers around here…"

I too join in on some of the taunting and jeering spewed out by fellow inmates, even though not too long ago _I_ was the one being hounded as I passed through those gates. You gotta join in because in here, being _too remarkable_ is a targetable offence. In prison, we're all the same, no use sticking out like a sore thumb.

To further add to their shame, the crimes each man committed are hung around their necks. Their crimes included stuff such as trafficking, political dissidence, larceny, all run-of-the-mill stuff…except _one_. It's the last guy, however, who garners everyone's attention. _'A. Portman – Child Molestation'_.

"WELL, WELL, WELL," Johnny bellows, jutting a finger towards the man in question. "WE GOTTA KIDDIE DIDDLER COMIN' IN!"

At first look, the man doesn't have anything going for him right off the bat. Rotund, reddened and with a receding hairline, he was exactly what came to mind when one thought of a perverted oddball. He was shirtless, his back flayed and bloodied from the whipping he must've gotten prior and his overall body bruised black and blue probably due to the public getting their fill. He should've kept his head down; instead he takes the jeers hurled toward him full-force. Judging by the frown and tears that stream down his face, he's already broke before he even stepped foot behind the gate.

"Aw _fuck_ …mise well pay my respects now." Roland makes a show of removing his hat, as everyone follows his gesture.

"Hey Cap'n, you might as well just call out " _Dead man walking"_ right now!" Clifford calls out.

The huskily-built District 2 native smirks as she passes us by. She's peculiar like that, engages with us in a few back and forth's but also has no qualms with gunning one of us down on a flip of a dime. "No use stating the obvious, Henry!" she replies, pointing her gun in the air as a spread of violet rays erupts from the barrel. That's shuts everyone up. "Alright, show's over, now shut your holes and go back to your business!"

I turn to the fourth guy in our little group, a big imposing man with high cheekbones and braids. Although he's quite the looker, he wouldn't hurt a fly. "Hey Chief, I bet you any item in commissary that he won't last the night." Not much of a talker since I've known him, he smiles and shakes his head. He knows it's a pointless bet. When I first came in, a rapist managed to survive his lynching and was a part of our intake. The next morning after orientation, they found him hanging from a noose made out of sheets outside his jail cell. Even now as we slowly return back to our daily routines, _everyone_ seemed to be musing about the fat man's fate. When the clock strikes eleven in Cell Block A, the wonder reached fever pitch. Everyone, I mean _everyone_ focused their attention toward the first tier, Cell 15 – the kiddy peddler's home for the night.

"Alright ladies, lights out!" barks Captain Weaver as one by one, the overhead lights dimmed.

"The only lady I see here is you, not that I'm complainin!" Calls an inmate.

"Shut it before I serve you plasma as a late night snack!"

Maybe half an hour later, there's a buzz as Cell 15 slides open. There's a quick shuffling of feet on the ground, an exclamation of surprise…and then the wailing begins. The sound of objects colliding against flesh ring out throughout the cell block, accompanied with pained wails and pleas of forgiveness. After the sounds of struggle subside comes the snotty sobbing typical of happenings like these.

"Welcome to Pyreford, ya fat tub of shit!" an Inmate accosts, much to the laughter and continued jeering of everyone else in the general area. It's under the cover of darkness that I don't have to follow along with their warped sense of entertainment. It's _here_ where I don't have to warp my morals to stay afloat and conform to the majority. When dawn breaks, I have to put the mask on once again. Anything to keep making it, I guess.

It takes covering my head with a pillow to drown out his cries.

…

It's when I stand in line for breakfast I have to put the mask to work. Some mouth-breather and his stooge of a friend thought he could cut in front of me, but one firm grip of the collar and a just as firm shove is enough for him to move. The two of them move to retort, but a Peacekeeper's sharp "Ah _em"_ Is enough for them hightail it to the back of the line. Dignity is surprisingly one of the few things I've managed to retain here in Pyreford. Although with this oatmeal sludge plopped into my bowl, I probably would've let him stay and risked the blow to my 'status' anyway.

"I almost feel sorry for the chomo… _almost_." Clifford says while nodding towards the man in question. The child molester sits alone, most people with controversial crimes often do. He looked even _worse_ than when he stepped off the bus. The wounds on his face were fresh and Panem knows what's going on _under_ his clothes. Our attention shifts toward the cafeteria entrance as Weaver marches in with a squad of other guards.

"Inmates atten- _shun_!"

So we do, quietly rising out of our seats as a pair of shoes clack against the tiles. The only shoes to make that clacking noise around here can only belong to Warden Linus Pyreford. Dressed in a pinstriped double-breasted suit, man wordlessly walks to the middle of the room and takes his place beside the Captain. The dynamic between the wiry Pyreford and the warrior-like Weaver is the butt of many inside jokes. Silently the Warden adjusts his circular glasses and purses his pencil-thin white mustache as he takes in the space beside him.

"Which of you reside in Block A!?" he asks aloud, smirking as a multitude of hands shoot upward. "Good. Today is your lucky day. Today, you get a taste of _freedom_ and extra credits for commissary…in exchange for some honest work of course. You have ten minutes to fill your gullets."

My face brightens at 'freedom', as do the faces of my friends. By freedom does he mean beyond the fence, open air, _civilization_ , the sensation of being _human_ again? If so I couldn't wait.

…

 _"_ C'mon ladies, put some more muscle into it!" Weaver mocks, cocking her gun.

Sat on top of a mount, she and her cohorts keep a watchful eye as we continue to mow away at the grass in the field they assigned us to. . The occasional rock or object I run into, Clifford places it into the wheelbarrow Chief pushes around. Pausing, I wipe the sweat that begins to form around my forehead. This wasn't my idea of ' _freedom'_ , bu it beats working in a crowded laundry room or smelting metals.

"What's this for anyway?" asks Roland to a Peacekeeper passing by.

"District 9 is a growing place inmate, a growing place with open spaces ripe for development." They reply with a sneer. "You're paving the way for it."

If Chief took me up on the bet, he'd be flush with commissary goods as our tubby friend is still alive, just barely. Although judging by the way he's drugging behind everyone else, I think he's reached his end. Limping, his jumpsuit is drenched with sweat as he attempts to push his wheelbarrow to no avail.

"Lookie here…Mr. Kiddy Diddler is unable to work!" jeers a Peacekeeper.

"If there were a little kid on the other end of the field, he'd be over there in a jiffy." Another Peacekeeper taunts while others guffaw with laughter. Even some prisoners join in on the chuckling too.

" _PORTMAN_ , get to pushin'!" Weaver barks with a bitter edge. She gestures to her dog that begins to growl. The damn thing were built like a baby carriage. "My Dobermans' have been eyeing you since we got here. I'm gonna give you till the count of three to get your fat ass _up_. If not, my dog won't have to eat for a _month_ , whaddya say?"

I watch as the other Peacekeepers guide their dogs over now, encircling him. Weaver's, bigger than the others', mouth splits open like one of those fly-trap mutts you'd see in a Hunger Games.

"One…"

He tries to get up, but falls to his bottom.

"Two…"

He tries once more and he actually makes it, pushing the wheelbarrow with two steps before crumpling to the ground, wheezing.

She sneers, waving dismissively towards the man as she says " _Three_. Sic his ass!"

I turn around and mind my work, trying my hardest to ignore the barking, the droplets of blood peppering my neck and cheek and the wails of agony until nothing but the sound of wet gnawing and chewing could be heard alongside the occasional laughter from Weaver and her gaggle of Peacekeepers.

I find myself gripping my mower until my knuckles turn _white_. There are no 'horizons' in Pyreford, neither is there a way of 'making it farther' in here, just day-to-day _survival_. I don't wanna live day-to-day. And as decent as they are I don't wanna be _numb machines_ like Roland and Clifford or a manic like Johnny who gets off on others' misery.

There has to be a way…

…

. I can't help but smile as Benji, Eleanor and Micah enter visitation. I point to the telephone on their end of the booth, which Benji quickly picks up.

" _Lars…"_ Benji breathes. His voice and features seeping with worry. He plants his hand on the glass as he says "How are you holding up?"

I crack a smile, returning the gesture. It's times like these where I would look back at what was. Not too long ago Benji and I were at each other's throats. If we ever addressed each other, it was with playful scorn, not outright affection. "I'm surviving…I lasted this long haven't I?"

"Well, you look _good_ Lars." Eleanor says solemnly with a soft smile.

"You better than I, Ellie." I reply, flashing a piece of paper. "I got your letter, good for you on turning things around."

In hindsight, Ellie never did anything wrong. She was a wallflower, a purveyor of information. That was a contrast to me, who often had to do the footwork that often came with trafficking. If anyone had a better chance out there, it was her. And she knows that. She must be thinking the same thing, given how downtrodden she looked.

"I still never got an answer to why you took the fall." She continues.

I smirk, shrugging. "All will be revealed soon I suppose." I turn to Micah now. "You got my message, right?"

"Y-yes I did." The brain says, adjusting his black-franked glasses. "Benji and Eleanor advise differently, however."

"Ten years isn't much…and besides, you have good behavior!" Ellie pleads.

"Given the story of the case, the chance of you getting out early is high." Benji adds.

"With everyone else dead, I'm the scapegoat. I'm surprised they didn't kill us on the spot, let alone hand me such a 'light' sentence." I say, shaking my head. "Besides, who knows what'll happen in here between now and years from now?"

This proposition of mine is the only way to escape entirely. Even if I did last the ten years, the cycle would repeat itself. The both of them know this, judging by their frowns. I repeat the gesture of placing my hand on the glass as they do the same.

"Micah, what's your final opinion?" I ask him. He always was the one for sage advice. I trust his say more than anyone's.

"Legally, y-you're clear to go." He replies, gesturing to a copy of Panem's constitution. "This is the only way…although the odds are _steep_ I must warn you."

I find myself smiling. "I know how to work with a shitty hand."

I've been dealt them all my life.

* * *

 ** _Elizabeth 'Liz' Verrano, 18  
Victor of the 96th Hunger Games  
_**May 24th

"Lunch is served!" Devyn announces, placing a platter on the table for her and I to enjoy. With her being sixteen, the baby of the family, she's free from the reaping and decided to stay the night with me at the Victor's Village. "Assorted sandwiches, what could possibly go wrong?"

I smile, swiping two of them. "You can't go wrong with sandwiches."

As we dig into our meal, the holovision showcases various reapings that had already occurred across the nation. A handful of Districts appear to be in some form of revolt. District 5 and eight are currently at a "Level 2" alert, whatever that means.

"I can't believed they reaped Alana Oskoii…out of all the potential people…" my sister murmurs, watching as Peacekeepers hustle her and the male tribute into their Hall of Justice under a hail of rocks, shoes and other trash. "What do you thinks gonna happen here?"

I shrug. "I don't think anything can happen." District 9 was simply too large, so large in fact that to get all eligible citizens for the reaping to the heart of Nine, the reaping ceremony starts at four o'clock. The same goes for District 11 too, from what I know. With so many sparse communities within the District, the Peacekeepers can easy keep tabs on any activity, unlike the highly urban and dense Five, Six and Eight.

"That's true…and it's probably for the best." Devyn says, taking a bite of her sandwich. "If Niners know how to do anything, it's to keep our heads down and let the chips fall where they may." She glances at me now, her features filled with concern. "How are _you_ feeling though?"

"I just hope that none of us ever get reaped again…there's so many." I shake my head. "Mom, Dad, Connor, Alisa, Calia…their wife and husbands…they're _all_ eligible this year." I take a sip of water. "As if losing Rianne was bad enough, imagine losing _another_ sibling?"

"No, no, no." Devyn snaps, waving her hand dismissively. "Let's not bring that up…its bad enough I have to think about it every day."

"We can't run away from it Dev…" but we try to anyway. The family was never really the same after Rianne's death in HG 95. While my shocking reaping and victory happened the following year, everyone was already busy trying to preoccupy their minds with other things. Although we see each other every now and then for holidays, the family isn't what it once was. Everett Danton, a Victor who 'coincidently' also had a sibling fall in HG 95 put it very simply – " _My victory is a double-edged sword. I'm glad to be back, but the damage is still there."_

After finishing our meal and cleaning up, the doorbell rings, signifying my ride to the Hall of Justice was here. "Are you coming Dev?"

"I might as well…the entire family's gonna be there."

Nine's Hall of Justice was unique compared to others. Right beside the steps and entrance was a nineteen-floor _'_ _Skyscraper on the Prairie_ _.' –_ as many people call it. It was an eyesore if you asked me, compared to say Snow Island or District One's Justice Buildings. The grass field before it is packed with people, including Mom, Dad and my siblings. It's been weeks and months since seeing them, but they're still cordial all the same as I embrace each and every one of them.

"Aren't you gonna wish us luck, Liz?" calls Dad as a Peacekeeper ushers me up the steps. I motion to my right leg. Sure it was covered in synthetic skin, but underneath it was all metal. "I don't think my luck is the _best_ luck to have."

Sitting beside Governor Stevenson was twenty-five year old Sindy Wellington, wearing a bright yellow dress with a white belt to bind it. Baring a wide smile, she waves at me as if her hand were engulfed in flames, which I return as I make my way up and sit down beside her. When the Governor rises, approaches the microphone and delivers his speech he turns the ceremony over to her. Unlike most escorts, she receives a fair amount of applause as she takes the stage. Most of that applause has plenty to do with her actions during Rianne's Games and mine. Where as many Escorts in the past served for a year and left, she stuck it out and continues to do so. She may be a ditzy blonde…but she's a respected ditzy blonde.

"Hello everyone, thank you so much for the warm welcome!" she croons, her bouncy curls jostling as she accentuates her words with gestures as well. "I'm _so glad_ to be back with you all as we celebrate the Hunger Games' centennial year! Woo hoo! Now, let us choose our two tributes. Starting with the ladies of course…" I quickly turn my attention to the giant screen. Please don't be family member…Please don't be a family member…I'm elated when a woman with shoulder length brunette hair appears on screen instead. "Hermia Rhodes!"

A young woman barges out from the twenty-five year old section and into the aisle. Just as quickly a middle-aged woman in a grey turtleneck sweater and black slacks starts after her, tugging her by the shoulder. They share a few hushed and supposedly heated words before engaging each other with a prolonged stare. Seconds later, the face of the younger woman falters as the Peacekeepers collect who I assume is Hermia. She doesn't make any show of defiance or even neutrality, instead showcasing how most tributes feel outside the Career Districts – straight up fear.

Sometimes, there's no use trying to portray anything else.

"That was an interesting display!" Sindy trills. "If _"daughter like mother"_ is a saying, then surely the reverse is true. Now, onto the selection of the male tribute! And our male tribute for this year is…Rye Bishop!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" a voice cries.

Sindy continues sporting that dopey smile on her face as the Governor and the aldermen stir in their seats. Gasps ring out throughout the field as the cameras pivot towards the far end of the rows. Peacekeepers, toting imposing shotguns, unshackle a man wearing the jumpsuit of a convict. Eyes from both sides of the aisle watch as the man is escorted toward the stage. His face, at the beginning hardened, falters when a woman calls out for him.

Sindy claps giddily as the Peacekeepers unlatch the shackles and cuffs that bind him, prompting the man to flex his arms and legs in relief. "Has this ever happened before? Look at us, creating _history_! What's your name mister…?"

"Lars," he says into the microphone, his eyes focused on something – _someone_ in the crowd. "Lars Malatic." He finishes, his voice cracking as the cameras focus on tearing man in the crowd. Despite all this, he maintains intrigue and composure.

"If I'm flabbergasted, I wonder how my pals in the Capitol are feeling about this!" chirps Sindy, placing her hands on the shoulders of both Lars and Hermia. "Well District 9, here are your tributes for the One Hundredth Hunger Games…Hermia Rhodes," she taps her, "And Lars Malatic. How about we send them some good vibes as they shake hands and begin their journey to the Capitol!"

The crowd does just that, offering a smattering of applause that quickly breaks out into murmurs as the two of them shake hands and make their way into the Justice Building.

"Wasn't that _something_ , Liz?" Sindy cheers, tugging me out of my seat as the crowd begins to dissipate. Mom, Dad and the rest are still there, so there's still time to say goodbye. "It makes me wonder where Nine fits in the grand scheme of things!"

"It's up to me to make them _fit_ in that grand scheme, Sindy..." I reply. "Which judging by Nine's lucky, easier said than done."

Do we even want them there in the first place?


	16. D10: A Daughter and A Hunter

_**A/N:**_ Sorry, I was sitting on this one for a week! Maybe because I was working ahead. Thanks Santiago and Midnight for your tributes.

* * *

 _ **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **District 10: An Affable Daughter and a Protective Hunter**_

* * *

 _ **Laelia Alvarado, 19**_  
 _ **District 10 Female**_  
May 11th, 2163 (HG 100)

"Laelia, look out!"

"Hmm…? _Whoa_!" If I didn't crane my head slightly to the side, the football would've nailed my face for sure. Instead, it whistles past my left cheek, colliding against a tree.

"Alvarado, wake up and smell the turkey!" barks our coach. "We won't beat Spidell High with _that_ type of energy!"

"Okay, sorry Coach Johnston!" I call back, running to retrieve the ball. Usually, I paid rapt attention to football. Unfortunately, there was something far more taxing than our upcoming championship against Spidell High.

 _My ranking of sixty-seventh percentile…_

Since I woke up this morning, that number has been floating around in my head and no matter how hard I try to divert my attention elsewhere, sixty-seven remains lodged where it is. Where twelve-year-olds were at the beginning of the reaping pool, I'm nineteen, at the _beginning_ of this year's reaping pool. Surely with all the adults running around, there are people in a far worse position than I am?

"Miss Alvarado?"

"Huh?" I splutter. Rubbing my eyes, I glance upward as our history teacher Mr. McGuiness regards me with an inquisitive stare. "I'm _so so_ sorry sir. Could you ask the question again please?"

I find myself sinking further into my chair as sniggers ring out throughout the classroom. My friend Jorge is one of them. A quick swing of my foot across the aisle into his exposed shin and the resulting "Oww!" he hisses suffices.

Mr. McGuiness nods. "Sure thing Laelia, in your own words, how would you describe the establishment of District 10 and reasons thereof?"

"Oh yeah, umm…District 10 was basically established because the Capitol needed suitable area for the raising of livestock – an area with suitable temperature. Due to people moving in from Mexico and the rising seas, and the supplies already there, the Capitol thought it was okay to establish a region there." I flash him a smile "Again, I'm _sorry_ for zoning out, Sir. It won't happen again!"

"Apology accepted." Mr. McGuiness cracks a smile. "You're one of the only students I know to bounce back like that. But please make sure you're following along, Ms. Alvarado. That goes for all of you, as I would be very disappointed to see any of you back here in the fall. Not because of your stunted education, but for my _personal_ sanity." This prompts all of us to snigger. "Now with Ms. Alvarado's description in mind, we'll now watch an episode of _"Birth of a Nation"_ where Southern Panem's history is described in detail." Sighing, he points to Jorge who shoots his hand into the air. "… _Yes_ Mr. Diaz?"

Jorge raises his hand. "Can you turn off _all_ the lights, Sir?"

"No." the response is playful yet stern at the same time.

Jorge scoffs, clasping his hands together as he 'pleads' "Awww, _pleaaase_ Sir, the lights irritate my eyes therefore _stunting_ my learning experience!" with his face contorted into a 'puppy dog' expression, a sigh from Mr. McGuiness and the remainder of the lights turning off melts the faux pout into a smug grin.

"Thank you Sir, you're the _best_!"

…

"What percentile did y'all get?" I overhear a girl asking her friends.

"I got like...thirty-three." one girl gushes. "Someone in my family way back when must've fought in the First Rebellion or something, what about you?"

"Forty-Eight per cent…thank _God_." Another girl answers.

"And me…I got five percent." The first girl says. "We're _saved_! Instead of standing in a stupid line, I can watch from the comfort of my own home."

"When they announced it I was scared to high heaven." The second girl adds. "Now, there's nothin' left to do but rest easy."

Clutching my textbook to my chest as support, I endure the conversations that bounce around the halls of Tule Roxen High. The lunch hour has begun, so the halls are extra packed. Left and right, everywhere I look senior students and teachers alike huddle in blobs as they share their percentiles for the upcoming Quarter Quell. Out of all these faces I pass, _none_ of them seem to share the same amount of dread as I do. Maybe they have a good poker face?

Jorge's finger snapping in front of me is enough to pull me out of my thoughts. "Laelia, earth to Laelia, come in Laelia, do you read?"

"Ugh…I'm so sorry Jorge." I lament with a frown. "Today's happenings have gotten me so stirred up."

"What, the _reaping draft_?" pulling out a mirror from his messenger bag, Jorge proceeds to smooth down his comb over. "Pssh…I got a fifty-five percent, _frijoles pequeños._ "

I look at him with envy. I wish I had his chilled persona. "That doesn't concern you at all? You _do_ have a flair for the dramatic, so being drafted for a televised deathmatch wouldn't faze you I guess."

Jorge snorts. "One of my Papa's brothers fought and died on the Rebels' side, Second Rebellion." He says, applying balm to his lips. "If he were a _general_ or something, _then_ I'd be shaking in my boots."

Boisterous laughter prompts both of us to glance upward as we approach the main foyer. It only makes sense that the disruptive noise comes from Miguel and his gaggle of varsity jacket-clad pals. When his brown eyes catch mine, he quickly excuses himself from his clique, budding his way between Jorge and me as he slips a hand around my shoulder.

"Look who it is…" Jorge drawls. "The school's chief lunkhead graces us with his presence."

"Hey, hey Lia, just the niña I wanna see…" shifting his gaze toward Jorge, his smile morphs into a scowl. "I see you're still hanging out with señor _fresa_ over here?"

"Ah, that's a new one I haven't heard before… _'Mister Strawberry'_." Jorge bites back with an equal amount of scorn.

I roll my eyes at the tasteless insult. "Miguel, if you're gonna talk with me, you will treat my friends with respect _please and thank you_."

"Alright, alright _fine…_ just for _you."_ He concedes. Eyeing a freshman about to open a soda can, Miguel quickly swipes it from out of his hand. "I need your tutoring services again. Math is kicking my ass…"

Letting out a groan I grab the pop can from Miguel's hands and quickly return it to the freshman, offering a quick apology. Miguel can be a big annoying baby sometimes… it's as if he hasn't grown since _kindergarten_. Luckily I'm here as his human pacifier, It's then and only then that he seems to humble his ego enough to be a tolerable person to others. He's a good guy altogether, at least _I_ think so. Like many rough-and-tumble boys, he just follows a bad crowd.

After spending lunch aiding Miguel for his upcoming math finals, I continue my tutoring pursuits by swinging by the Special Education hallway during my spare period. It's headed by Mrs. O'Dowd, a kindhearted – _you need to be_ – lady old enough to be my mother. The compare and contrast to other areas of the school is noticeable. Where hallways elsewhere were lined with lockers and display cases, the Spec. Ed hallway was dotted with cubbies and finger paintings – in other words it was as if one stepped back into elementary. Located at the back of the school, the program was well-hidden, just like the unique students who occupy it.

"Rachel, look!" coos Mrs. O'Dowd, gently tapping the shoulder of the girl beside her. "It's Laelia, she's here to see you!"

Because her condition renders her 'mute', Rachel smiles and lets out a mix of what sounds like a wail and laughter.

"Hi Rachel," I greet, glancing at her canvas. "What's that you're drawing? A _horse_ , that looks _so good!_ Could I get a hi-five?" giggling, Rachel gently places her hand against the palm of mine. "Good job!"

I have a good relationship with all the guys and girls in the program, but Rachel stands out the most to me. With two bratty brothers at home, it's nice to be the mentor of a girl for a change. The teachers here say that she makes good progress when I'm here to encourage her. Overseeing her while she completed hands-on tasks took my mind off of the issue of the day.

"Thank you so much, Laelia." Mrs. O'Dowd says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Ya'll stick together like a dog and a flea, and she needs more people like that."

"It's no problem Mrs. O'Dowd." I insist. It's the benefit of it all. With an image-oriented family like mine, Mama and Papa can flaunt me around for promotion and I can rest easy knowing Rachel has someone who cares…until my parents force me to move on to another venture that boosts the family name.

Speaking of family name, after school let out, Jorge _insisted_ he come over and study for history at my house. The two storey yet _expansive_ home was in the neighborhood across the street. That was the problem. In a neighborhood filled with modest one and one-half storey and split-level houses, ours sticks out like a sore thumb. That wasn't the only thing that stuck out. It was our names, our pale skin strawberry blonde locks, green and blue eyes – all remnants of our family's long history with luxury. For as long as I could remember, I found myself downplaying our family's affluence.

 _"Hey Laelia, you guys have some fancy couches, where'd you get 'em?"_ Friends would ask me. _"My great great great grandpa was mayor."_ I would reply. And I would shrug them off every time my wealth was put into question.

Opening the door, we're greeted by Aurumn. Where most boys wore modest clothes with muted colours, Aurumn would wear bright and patterned numbers someone would find at a department store downtown. It's hard to downplay your affluence when everyone else in the family flaunts it. "Mama, Laelia and her boyfriend are here!"

I glare beams at my younger brother. " _Shut up!"_ I hiss, on top of Jorge's awkward laughter. I doubt Jorge even _likes_ girls.

"Hola señora Alvarado! ¿Cómo estás?" Jorge greets. Mama peers out from the kitchen hallway, smiling as she regards the both of us.

"Ah, Jorge is back with us once more. Luck you, as I just finished up with some quesadillas!"

"Oooh, lucky me!" Jorge gushes, jostling my shoulders. " _See_ , _this_ is why _love_ coming here, family friends and good eats."

"How was school you two?" she asks.

"School's okay." He replies, as the both of us take our seats. Joy, the second eldest sibling in our family, waves at us with a full mouth. "Exams are right around the corner…by studying; Laelia and I are hoping we'll kick their butts before they kick ours."

Mama turns to me now, watching me with concern. "You'd think that Jorge was my _son_ and Laelia were the _guest."_ She quips with a smirk on her face. _"_ What's wrong mi cielo? You always clam up when you're nervous."

I retrieve the percentile document, sliding it across the table. "What's _your_ percentile?"

Everyone around the table, including Mama, frowns as she regards the letter. "…Thereabouts." She replies quietly.

"Why is it so high, what did we do to warrant such a high percent?!" I quiz, tapping the paper. Abuela y Abuelo would always tell me stories about their life of grandeur and luxury before the War. They spoke of wanting a fresh start, resulting in their moving to Ten. Papa's family joined them also. Obviously there's more to the story…but what? It can't be good, judging by how high we ranked.

"I was younger than _you_ when we left One," Mama explains with a frown. "Back then, you were taught to better your personal self and not to worry about familial affairs. Maybe there was a conflict with another family…"

"Conflict could mean _anything,_ Mama. _"_ I lament.

"If it were anything heinous, would we be here right now, let alone live the way we do?" Mama presses. I find myself stumped with the question. That's true. Certainly the Capitol would've come for us, they do it for other rebellious families years later.

"Come on Laelia, stop thinking about it so hard." Jorge pleads, caressing my shoulder. "I know a guy whose great great grandpa was a rebel commander back during the Dark Days. He has _ninety_ percent. Do you think he'd get reaped, out of all the recent rebels they could pick?"

"Probably not…" I reply apprehensively. Jorge was right. Miguel got eighty percent, with dozens of relatives killed or imprisoned following the War. With his penchant for all things anti-authority, he would have a higher chance at being selected than I would.

"Exactly," Mama chimes in. "You keep doing what you're doing and don't you worry about Reaping Day. Out of all the eligible ages, why would you have a chance? Think about it, mi cielo."

"Okay…" I nod, felling the weight of the letter lessening as I take a breath or two. "Okay Mama, I'll _relax_."

Though I don't share their casualness about the issue, I do respect their love and support. I love it, having a group of people around you that you can lean on. Otherwise, my brain would explode with anxiety. They're right on one hand, I am _the_ definition of a good girl. I represent my family and community well. I'd like to think that counts for something in the universe…although realistically, I _doubt_ it.

* * *

 _ **Emmanuel Cade, 22**_  
 _ **District 10 Male**_  
May 14th, 2163 (HG 100)

I find myself stirring awake due to stamping feet and the clanking of dishes downstairs. Looking at the blackness beyond my curtains, I don't need to look at the clock on my bedside table to know we're in the wee hours of the morning. This is typical for our household or our people in general. _Time is money_ as people say, and what better time to start garnering as much as you can than at the crack of dawn?

The youngest of the Cade family aren't exempt from this either. Emerging from my room, Tara and Damaris push and shove their way towards the washroom, stopping as they see me.

"Go ahead, one of you." I mutter. "And don't take an _eon_ and a half to finish."

Adjusting her glasses, Tara snarkily says "As a _developing young woman,_ I cannot promise you tha-" Damaris takes advantage of Tara's arrogance, shoving past her and slamming the bathroom door shut. " _Maris_!"

"And the wait begins..." I muse with a smirk.

Resting against the wall, Tara lets out a low groan of annoyance. "It almost makes me take the communal school bathrooms for granted – _almost."_

Typically, the twins are at residential school for the week, only coming home selectively during the weekdays and are allowed weekend leave to aid the family. As much as I love the troublesome duo, I missed the peace and quiet…and the open availability of the bathroom. Washing up, I slip into denim slacks, a shirt and an open denim button up, joining the rest of the family downstairs. While everyone else opts for porridge, I'm content with tea and a bowl of raspberries. I'm content with these more often than not.

"All ready for the day, Emmanuel?" asks Shimá – Mother – as she stands behind me, fastening my hair into a _tsiiyéél,_ a style of bun traditional to our people.

"Yes Shimá, we have a good feeling about the reservoir today. Nathaniel says he spotted a new colony of beavers yesterday setting up shop at the basin."

"That's good news, my son." She replies, caressing my shoulder. "Everyone desires beaver pelt."

"Not as much as they love processed _mink_ and others." I retort bitterly. "Hopefully we make a good haul today, maybe then we can break even after _they_ milk us dry."

Sighing heavily behind me, she places her hands on my shoulder. "Emmanuel…"

"It's _true_ Mother, please don't stifle me." I reply. "Look at the garments you, Tara and Damaris create. They're superior to any other vendors work – to any _white man's_ work. That's why they put us down so much."

"It is best to work with what we are given." Mother says with earnest. "We've been doing it all this time, your father and I for much longer haven't we?"

"Well, the patience you and Father possess must've skipped me entirely." I conclude, rising from the chair and heading toward the door where I slip on my moccasins. I scoop up my trusty bow and arrows, leaning just before the door.

"You've made that clear for the twenty-two years I've raised you." She quips back with a smirk.

I reflect her gesture. "Goodbye, Mother. I'll see you shortly."

With that, I step off the porch and onto the dirt road. I'm surrounded by cottages that vary in condition from decent to dilapidated. On my street alone, I could count on my hand how many had an operable car, a water pump, or a single telephone pole with a single wire connected to their home. That's living on 'The Rez' for you, as being a member of the Navajo Nation, the Capitol allots us a plot of land - a reservation – where we could 'function' in relative 'independence'. Of course there are Peacekeepers and Indian Agents who keep a watchful eye on things.

I follow the soft laughter to our backyard where my elder siblings, Nathaniel and Rosanna are with Father as he tends to our makeshift manger. Tied to the fence are their three mounts, Ajei, Kai and Lina.

"Nathaniel, Rosa," I say, turning towards Azhé'é – _Dad_ – and nodding. "Father."

"Ah Emmanuel, you're right on time." Nathaniel greets. "Are you ready to make way?"

"I am. I hope your scouting of that dam produces good results."

"We've already baited the surrounding wetlands. All we need to do is _check_." Rosa says, handing me the reins to Ajei. "If all goes well, alongside the game we bag along the way, we'll garner a decent haul."

"Good luck, you three. Do you have your permits?" Father asks as we nod. "Good, the Peacekeepers are a particular bunch. We'll meet you at the market to process your spoils."

With the three of us on mounts, it doesn't take long to transition from the dry, open plains to a more green and mountainous forest often called " _Gila_ ". As soon as we're in the trees proper I persuade my siblings to dismount our horses and lead them towards the basin, lest we want to spook potential game along the way. Nathaniel, alongside his bow, slings a repeater across his back.

"You'd better not get us into any shit with the Peacekeepers." I mutter as I wearily eye the weapon. Even though single-shot firearms for hunters and people living remotely were legal, I wouldn't put it behind a PK to start a problem just because. They do it more often than not, _I_ would know.

"Would you rather…get into shit with a PK or a _black bear?_ " he asks with a raised eyebrow.

I make a show of tapping my chin. " _Hmm_ …that's genuinely a hard question to answer." I feign a shrug as the three of us break out in laughter. Like night and day, Rosa's face melts into an expression of surprise as she juts one finger forward and places another on her lips.

"Shh, _look_." She hisses.

I follow the direction of her finger, glancing upward at the elk that glances back. It's so…surreal, even though we've been in the same position dozens of times before. It just stands there, large and majestic while it grazes at the shrubs below its hooves. I risk a glance towards Nathaniel, who already has his repeater aimed towards its head.

Before he could shoot, four coyotes come in from behind and take it down. Two go for its legs and two at the neck. Bunching up a fist, Nathaniel prepares to intervene, only for Rosa to place a firm hand on the chest.

"You know how it goes." She says, as he simply nods.

Of course we know the saying about coyotes, we've been taught it many a time. " _If a coyote ever crosses your path, turn back and do not continue your journey lest you face misfortune in the near future."_

"Well, the stories never spoke about continuing our journey at another point?" I say. So we do just that, leaving the mischievous beasts to their breakfast.

We start the morning off well, bagging a dozen squirrels and chipmunks. The Creator must be rewarding us for heeding their warning. The snares Rosa and I managed to set up caught _two_ lynx and a rabbit. When we reached the wetlands, a small little enclave of a lake surrounded by trees, I found out that Rosa and Nathaniel's report was not unfounded. At the mouth of the lake was a beaver dam in such a size I've never seen. Nathaniel unceremoniously wades into the water to collect the first trap, pulling out of the water one plump beaver. This process continues until eight beavers are collected. We save the others so that their numbers can be replenished. Their pelts and other materials will surely offset any bartering costs with suppliers. So, with our morning's haul tacked onto our mounts, we make our way out the woods and towards civilization.

"So…the Reaping is coming up in a couple of weeks…" Rosa pipes up. "Any _niggling_ doubts?"

"Besides Nathaniel and I being tesserae jockeys for six years…" I reply, turning towards my elder brother who reflects my smirk. " _No_ , I have no doubts."

Our peoples' views on conflict for the most part have held out throughout the years. Besides Nathaniel garnering tesserae for Rosa and I and myself doing the same for Tara and Damaris, there isn't a rebellious bone in our family, with each of us with a percentile of fifty-five percent. That extra five percent is probably the tesserae we've taken over the years. In my eyes this is a blessing _and_ a curse, for there are many reasons to take up arms in Panem right now.

"That'll be about a thousand PD's." grunts Mr. Emerson, one of the many breeders that frequent the _Roswell Farmer's Market._ He is just one of the _many_ reasons why.

If one really wanted to, a native could remain on the reserve without entering Ten proper…excluding Reaping Day of course. Then again, unless you would want to be engulfed in a vice or starve to death due to a lack of a proper job, closing yourself off to the rest of the District would be a bad idea…regardless of how dense its denizens can be.

"A _thousand_ dollars for two mahogany mink pallets and _sheepskin_?" I sputter incredulously, watching as Father reaches for his wallet. I make sure that he doesn't pull it out entirely. "The average bulk amount for that breed is _four hundred_."

"These pelts are quality bred, unlike them varmints you scavenge in the wild." He retorts with a hardy gaze. "Take it or leave it."

I square my jaw as his daughter – and one of my friends surprisingly – Maybelle, drops the box she was heaving and moves to put a shoulder around her father.

"Aw _c'mon_ Papa…have you seen the stuff they can make?" she coos, clinging to his arm. "Its _Mama's birthday_ in a couple of weeks…maybe you could put in an order and get a set for her dirt cheap."

"Hmm…" lighting a cigarette he inhales and exhales his drag, showing no courtesy as he blows the excess our way. While Father's face shows no offence, his hands say something else, clamping around my fist in an attempt to calm me. "Alright then, six fifty for the shipment. When ya'll finish making what you do, I'll come 'round lookin'. I expect a discount."

"Of course, Mister Emerson." Nods father, extending his hand forward – cash in hand. "Thank you for your business."

Frowning, he glances cautiously around the room before weakly pumping his hand. "…Right."

"There ya go Papa, Mama's gonna be _so happy_ with you!" Maybelle bubbles, pecking his cheek. "Now, lemme start sendin' the pallets over."

Mr. Emerson returns to his newspaper. "Well…Go on then."

"Thank you Miss Emerson for your kindness." Father says. I still glare at the man, but Father's not-so-gentle tap on the shoulder gets me to turn around.

Her blonde hair bounces as she flashes a full smile. "It's no problem, anything for Emmanuel and family. I don't see why we can't be cordial?"

"I wonder the exact same thing..." I mutter, folding my arms. We all suffer under the Capitol, why suffer amongst ourselves because one's skin colour is different? It's ignorant, and Ten is filled with ignorance.

Although things aren't _too_ bad on the social front, as Father takes the pallet of furs back into our market stall, I take my seat before our shop with Maybelle, Tanner, Dixie and Elijah - my closest friends and the oddest assembly of people known to District 10. A plain-white-guy – Tanner, a colored guy – Elijah, a lesbian – Dixie and a 'debutante' rich girl Maybelle – who also happens to be secretly involved with Dixie and an 'Injun' – myself…an unlikely group of people for sure. We engage in a card game of 'President', all while I keep a watchful eye on our stall as a customer speaks with Tara. Because we're perceived as lesser somehow gives people the right to treat us so as well.

"Raise your hand if you wish you weren't of rebel lineage." Dixie says, snorting as everyone raises their hand in instant unison. "I don't blame ya…I got a _ninety_ percent. Can you believe that, for something my uncles did? My daddy served his time…'prised he made it."

"Shit, I'm surprised we even have a livelihood, after the shit my family pulled around here." Elijah adds.

"What are you laughin' 'bout Emmanuel?" asks Tanner.

I point to myself. "Me? I'm just thinking about the resulting fireworks this year's festivities will bring and when I mean ' _fireworks'_ I mean conflict across the nation."

"You think there'll be trouble?" Maybelle asks, scooting closer to Dixie.

"There could be nothing but." I reply with an honest nod. "Something tells me reaping adults with livelihoods and people depending on them are a bad idea."

"Erm…Emmanuel?" Maybelle frets, pointing a tentative finger towards my stall. I turn around, watching as a Peacekeeper leans in and rests his elbows against the counter. Two more of his lackeys stand idly by, giggling like mischievous children.

"Could you please leave me alone sir?" Murmurs Tara. "I've done n-nothing wrong…"

"Are you sure about that, girlie? You haven't seen the reds around here…they're a very troublesome bunch, so why wouldn't you be?" the familiar voice purrs. "Say…you are a _pretty_ one, aint'cha?"

Tara frowns, flinching from his touch. "Please stop…"

I rise up from my chair, facing the man. "Jamison, that's enough _. Leave her alone_."

Slowly, the Peacekeeper strands straight and then cranes his head toward me, removing his hand from Tara's cheek. It was Jamison alright. To many he was a tall man with a nonchalant demeanor that quickly devolved into an imposing demeanor when he wanted to be. To me, he was just another obstacle I had to brave and _do brave_ on a consistent basis…and he _hated_ that. He regards me with that shit-eating grin as per usual, removing his Stetson hat and smoothing down his blond pompadour.

"I'm sorry red, are you interferin' with Peacekeeper business?" he inquires arrogantly. Our general area quiets, with all eyes focused him and me.

"If ' _Peacekeeper business'_ includes harassing an innocent girl then I suppose so." I retort, not backing down.

Jamison raises an eyebrow. "Is than an attitude I hear in your voice, red?"

"You know Jamison, everything was fine until you came along…" trills Dixie whilst looking over her cards.

Jamison cranes his head toward her. "Shut up, _bitch_. No one's talkin' t'ya."

It takes tanner, Maybelle and Elijah to hold the girl down as I step back into his vision. "You were talking to me, were you not?"

Jamison lets out an airy scoff, glancing around at the various faces that gawk back at him. He directs his steely blue eyes back towards me.

"Y'know red, I oughta shut down this little operation of yours, let you and your ilk flounder." He seethes, leaning towards me with his hands clasped behind his back. His lips are inches from my ear. "But there's somethin' about ya that makes me keep comin' back."

"You're a demented deviant." I spit back into his ear. That makes his eyes tremble with anger. I'm doubled over on the floor as Jamison's knee reclines back into place.

"Emmanuel!" Tara cries as the girls gasp. Elijah's got Tara as Tanner moves to assist, but my waving him off stops him in his tracks. Jamison's subordinates are quick to grapple me by the crooks of my elbows.

"Boys, bring red with me." Jamison smirks, caressing my hair and then my cheek with a pinch and a wink. "I know a punishment that would thoroughly suffice…"

* * *

 _ **Annabelle Starling, 35**_  
 _ **Victor of the 83rd Hunger Games** _  
May 24th, 2163 (100 HG)

Even as I wake up, I'm flustered as to where I was. It takes a moment to realize I'm in Ten's Victor's Village. After all these years, I'm still not accustomed to living in the urban mansion neighborhood, preferring to live on my ranch on the outskirts of town.

I won't be living there, no sir. Instead I'll be in the Capitol, facing _God-knows-what_ for _God-knows-how_ long.

Hearing the holovision downstairs playing, I saunter down to see Ten's escort, Harriet Blakely, watching with interest with a cup of tea in hand. Her disheveled, unpinned hair and silk robe she dawns brings back last night's memories in full force.

"What are you still doin' 'ere?" I ask, sitting on the couch's arm beside her. "I hope y'don't plan on walkin' outside lookin' the way you do."

Harriet makes a show of shooing me away. "Nonsense Annabelle, the prep team will look after me."

I turn my attention to the holovision she's so enamored with. Today's festivities don't seem to bode well with many districts, mine included. We're treated to images of Peacekeepers trouncing protestors with horses, hovercrafts firing gas into mobs and husks of cars burning among other things.

" _Stupid, stupid_ people…" Harriet grouses with scorn. "Half of them don't even need to _attend_ the reaping this year, why protest?"

"It's the principle of it all, I 'pose." I answer. With high profile rebels in jail or outright killed, the potential to reap respective members of the community is high, and for _what_ exactly?

"They can be replaced. Why do you think the Capitol invests so heavily in education?" glancing at me, she frowns. "Do you have to drink so early?"

I fill my cup to the brim with wine. "Why not, it's as good as a time as any if y'ask me?" Maybe now I won't be coherent enough to notice the responsibility of guiding my tributes to their deaths until we're on the train proper.

I glance down at her as she entwines her hand with mine.

"I know there's a… _difference_ in how we perceive events." Harriet begins cautiously. "With the War and everything, I would be stupid to pretend that everything is peaches and cream."

"Tell me 'bout it." I mutter while sipping.

"Whatever these other districts are trying to prove, Ten _should not_ get involved."

"I'm just one girl Harriet, one girl out of hundreds and thousands of people." I reply pointedly. "My goal at the end of the day is to do my job and make sure my folks aren't caught up in anything they ain't supposed ta."

"…That's partially right. But drinking won't help the situation either." She says, releasing the glass from my hand. "While family is important, you represent all of Ten as well. If you're out of commission, then we might as well just pick two people at random and execute them on the spot. My _point_ is that we – I mean _you_ – need to put your best foot forward and hope for the best."

"I've been doing that for a _decade_ now." I frown, not quite understanding where she's getting at. I've been 'thinking positively' for too long about something that isn't positive at all. I bring home one person...woop-de-doo. I still lose one tribute and then have another dry spell for a couple of years.

She plants a kiss on my forehead either way. "Good. Keep going.

The Peacekeepers had a solid grip on Downtown; you couldn't go a second without seeing white-armored soldiers walking about. There were no burning cars or debris to be seen, instead patriotic pennants and streamers littered the Main Street leading up to the square. Even though it's the One Hundredth Hunger Games, the square was filled as if it were any other year. I guess those who didn't make the draft took advantage and stayed home. Like Ma, Pop and my siblings. Gracie's here though, and true to her word she sits by Governor Maddox. She's movin' on up alright. Soon, _she'll_ be the one giving the speeches around here.

Being alive for thirty-odd years, the process becomes a blur. The Governor's speech about Panem with extra 'oomph' about it being one hundred years ,the announcing of Ten's Victors…and then Harriet herself with her video topping it all off. As soon as the new-and-improved video ceases, she quickly takes to the microphone. She wore her usual tan breeches, long boots and blazer with her family crest on it and a bowler hat that covers her bun. She fits in with Ten's upper crust rather than the average, plaid-wearing Joe.

"Good afternoon, District 10! I'm glad to be with you all for what is now the fifth time! Thankfully you are much more behaved than your cousins elsewhere in the nation." She greets, fanning herself. "It's rather hot today, so I think we'd all do well by bring prompt. So let us begin by selecting our male tribute, change things up a bit. Change is _good._ "

Clutching the lever, Harriet lets out a groan as she yanks it backward. The screen scrolls and scrolls until finally landing on a younger Native man.

"Mr. Emmanuel Cade, come on up!"

And come on up he does. Out from the twenties section wearing denim trousers, a shirt and a sheepskin jacket, Emmanuel stomps through the aisle and up the steps, shoving Harriet aside.

"This has to be some sort of joke…" he rasps angrily. "How do you work this thing?"

"This is no joke, Mr. Cade! You've been selected to represent District 10 in the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games…Judging by your lineage, you'd do _very_ well I'd imagine. Now do you mind," Harriet gently prompts him to stop tugging at the lever. " _Stop_ doing that, thank you. Now, onto the selection of our _female_ tribute!"

Still seething, Emmanuel teeters to and fro with anger, glancing out towards family maybe. The process repeats, this time the screen freezing on a young woman. "Ms. Laelia Alvarado!"

There's a cry from the outside of the aisles. From what the speakers pick up, the distraught woman is speaking Spanish. Right up front before the stage comes Laelia. Judging by the sparkly blue dress she wears, contrasting with the cheap cotton of her cohorts, she's of old money. Luckily the walk isn't that far, as she's quick to bound the steps and take her place by Emmanuel's side. Her lips pursed, she maintains a neutral front over the cries of who supposedly is her mother.

Harriet doesn't skip a beat, ignoring the cries as she takes to the microphone ones more. "There you go, District 10, your tributes for the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games – Laelia Alvarado and Emmanuel Cade. Please, shake hands you two."

On cue, the crowd delivers lackluster applause as the Peacekeepers usher the two tributes into the building proper and turn to leave. I've never seen people disperse so fast in my life.

"Remember what we spoke about," Harriet says, placing a gentle hand on mine. "Put your best foot forward."

I find myself glancing at Laelia's mother who continues to sob. Held by her sons, the father leads them stone-faced into a side exit. Looking at them reminds me of what the last ten or so years under my watch have been – close calls and utter disappointment…the latter more than the former.

 _And for what?_

I find myself shaking my head. "I don't know how long I can do that anymore…"


	17. D11: A Husband and A Scientist

_**A/N: Thanks Santiago once again and AJ for these two.**_

* * *

 _ **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **District 11: A Trapped Husband and a Reluctant Scientist**_

* * *

 _ **Linden Norton, 44**_  
 _ **District 11 Male**_  
May 13th, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

I find myself gazing into the air again. The rain has stopped completely now, the sun lighting up the clouds as they begin to break and expose the blue sky once more. A rainbow even decided to make an appearance. The scenery makes me feel… _longing, longing_ for a place that _isn't_ District 11. Like a villa on Snow Island or a mansion in District 1.

 _Hmm…I should write that down._ Retrieving my notepad, I jot down the word ' _longing'_. We find ourselves doing that a lot over here.

"Get to picking, civilian!" A Peacekeeper barks, his boots clunking against the ground while he nears me. "Those quotas won't fill themselves."

Shifting my gaze from the sky, where my wonders and dreams reside, I find myself snapping back into reality. I'm on one of Eleven's many plantations, harvesting away at produce. There are many others like me, tilling away at the field with sunken, grime-ridden faces. Did it get even hotter than it was before? My feeling of elation is immediately swamped with annoyance as I meet the Peacekeeper's gaze.

Suppressing a scowl, I resign to simply nodding. "Sorry sir…won't happen again."

"Get your friend to snap out of it, before I thump him one." he grumbles, nodding over to Jordan who continues to gawk into nothingness. Nodding, I shuffle over to where Jordan stands. Twenty or so years have passed since Zachary fell in the Games. Poor Jordan hasn't been the same since.

"Jordan buddy, you gotta snap out of it." I plead, jostling his shoulder. I make a motion of harvesting, which gets him going okay. "What's goin' on, are the Games eatin' you again?"

Jordan pads down his raven comb-over, eyeing the Peacekeeper as the soldier turns his back and patrols another section of field.

"I'm sorry I'm not much company Linden." Jordan murmurs. It took a lot of strain to understand what he said with that hoarse voice of his. "This time of year don't sit right with me, for obvious reasons."

"It's okay bud, I don't blame ya." I say, taking the time to clap his back as a show of support.

"Thanks Linden. It's just…losing Zach, then the war… _losing_ the war…then President Kane coming along and giving me hope again…only for him to get _shot_. I just thought things would be different – be better." Rolling his eyes he sighs, shaking his head. "With Zach being gone and me making it though, thought I was _free_. Now I have to worry about myself or losing someone I care about to these… _'Games'_."

I make sure to glance around, cautious of what rabbit-eared sellout might be listening. Believe it or not some people _like_ slaving away for a far-off city and would _easily_ rat out a brother for a pat on the head.

"Look at it this way, man," I reason. "When these ' _people'_ die…they'll have to answer for what they done in another world. Somethin' tells me it ain't gonna be pretty."

Jordan nods, smirking. "… _Yeah_ …I like the sound of that."

With that, klaxon horn that oversaw our portion of the plantation blared out, signaling the end of our shift. In unison, row by row, we each assume an upright position as we in relief. Turning and forming a single file line, we shuffle towards the checkpoint out. Even though I didn't steal a thing, I couldn't help but shake in my boots at the Peacekeepers posted at the entrance with their imposing guns. Lead by a Peacekeeper Officer with his hands casually clasped behind his back, a squad of them comes down the line with dogs. All is well until the hounds begin to snarl and rasp at _me_.

The Officer raises a gloved hand. "Stop, hold the line!"

We do as we're told. I remain frozen as the dogs move past me and focus on the man _behind me._

" _Well well well,"_ tuts the Officer in his pretentious Capitol accent as he saunters toward the man. "What do we have here…?"

While the dogs are kept at heel, we watch as one Peacekeeper pats him down, relinquishing the man of the apples stashed in his overalls. One of the apples rolls to the shiny jackboot of the Officer. Picking it up, the Peacekeeper holds it up for the man to see with a scowl on his face. Besides birth, I've never seen coloured skin so _pale_ in my life.

"Pilfering Capitol produce I see? This _won't_ do…." He turns to one of his subordinates. " _Sergeant_ , take this man to the pillory! Fifty lashes should do the trick."

That's after the Peacekeepers rough him up, beating him with their batons and studded gloves. Over the man's pained cries, the Officer turns to me now, an eyebrow raised.

"Is there a problem, civilian?"

I shake my head. "No sir."

He gestures toward the gate, a smile etched on his face as if nothing were amiss. "Then please, go enjoy the rest of your evening."

As I slip past the gates, my longing for something better is sated, but flares up again as I wade into the other portions of my life that need dealing with.

Saying goodbye to Jordan, I head down to our family establishment, _Norton's._ It was a nifty general store located on the town's Main Street. It's a purely family affair, with Mama and Pop running it from day-to-day with help from my children. I pop in during the weekends.

"Afternoon Pop, how are you today?" I ask him, frowning slightly as he grunts and nods in acknowledgement. Tall, bald and dark-skinned, he sits underneath the verandah with his cane placed on his lap. His face blank, he returns to gazing into nothingness as I pass by. Like most men and women of his era, defeat and failure sit on his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. At least he's tough enough to live with that failure, unlike so many others I've heard about.

When the door chime rings Momma pokes out from behind the counter, her wizened features scrounged in confusion.

"Ronnie, where'd you go? I could've sworn you were in the food aisle."

Smiling, I shake my head. "I'm not Ronnie, Momma."

Right on cue, my elder brother emerges from the aisle in question. "I'm still here Momma..." he says, less enthused than I. We exchange polite nods, as he wasn't much of a talker anymore.

Perplexed, Momma bursts into laughter. "I'm sorry Lin! I've been making that same mistake for forty-odd years. I ain't gonna stop anytime soon."

Yep. Even though there's a three year difference between the both of us, Momma still seems to fudge our appearances, mistaking one of us for the other. Our short and curly dark hair, toned frames, _all_ the same…except our personalities that is. Like Pops, anger grips him a noose in town square. After a string of lady friends, Josie was so good for him. Unfortunately prayers weren't enough to save her from fever.

I still believe. I still believe there's someone out there, out of our reach, who dictates who will go to hell or heaven. Josie may be there, all we need to do is keep the faith.

"Oh, uh Lin, make sure you try and come on time tomorrow," Momma says. "We have a shipment in the back that needs breaking down."

"I'll be there."

"Good." Says Momma, her face lighting up as the door chime rings out once more. "Ah, Daniel, do you have some mail for me?"

Turning towards the door, I find myself frozen as the mailman makes his way toward the counter. He holds my glance all the way, only briefly regarding my mother to hand off the letters.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Norton! Of course, I have some mail for you." Handing them to her, he quickly pivots toward me. "You must be Linden Norton, right?"

I find myself clearing my throat. "…Yes, yes I am." I reply.

A pleasant smile remains etched on his face. "Good. Since you're here now, I guess I'll leave this with you. It saves me the trip." He places a piece of _paper_ , not a sealed letter, into my hand. From the store, to home, to the dinner table, I continue to mull over the paper's brief contents.

"…Lin is everything okay?" my wife, Delia, asks tentatively.

Maybe I mulled for too long. Setting my fork down, I stuff the paper into my pocket. "Yes, everything is fine."

I shift my glance towards Jarlen, who quickly averts his gaze with a frown. His cheek seemed to heal some since my backhand collided with it last night. He had the audacity to walk around town with his nails _painted_ and _clippings_ in that hair of his. He relaxed it, so now the texture is that of white folk. And not in the typical way we relax our hair to be more accepted, he has it in _bun_ looking like some shoddy excuse of a _girl_.

"Ace, none of your nail polish or anything has gone missing today, right?" I ask her.

"Nope." She replies, with emphasis on the ' _pe'_. Her olive face is obscured by a teen magazine. She's a maverick, but at least she's got her head screwed on somewhat straight, unlike her younger brother.

"Good." I nod toward my youngest. "Lemme see your nails Jarlen."

Wordlessly, he raises his trembling fingers. Yesterday, they were glazed with Ace's polish. Today they are polish-free as they _should be._

"I don't wanna see you do any of that sissy shit ever again." I reprimand, sitting back into my seat. "And tomorrow, make sure you march your ass to the barber to sort that mess out on that head of yours."

Glowering at his feet, tears run down his face until he excuses himself from the table entirely, a single choked sob escaping his mouth as he zips up the stairs.

Closing her magazine, Ace follows after him. "I'll try and talk to him I guess."

Delia, her face flush with hesitance, continues to stare straight ahead while eating her meal.

"… _Pussy_." I snort under my breath, directing my gaze towards my eldest, Salas. It's not the first time he's glared at me the way he does now. It's a judging glare, as if he knows _better_ than me. He may be nineteen, but he's a _kid._ He'll grow to appreciate my morals sooner or later.

"Is there a problem, boy?" I challenge with an eyebrow cocked.

"Dad… _lay off_ of him for God's sake." Salas pleads with a shake of the head. "He screwed up and he learned his lesson. You don't need to continue anymore."

"I do it for his own good, don't you understand?" I press on, gripping the edges of the table. "He's messin' up the natural order of things. When he dies and is sent to hell, can't say I didn't try and correct him. " I glance towards Delia now, "Aren't I right Delia?"

"…Just _let it go,_ Linden." She murmurs. "I'm sure it's just a weird phase. If you keep pressing like that…"

"I ain't letting that crap go." I guffaw. "You think he should continue walk about like he did yesterday. He'll get treated even _worse_. You bet your bottom dollar I'll keep pressin'!"

"For someone who talks a big game about good principles, you sure have a lot of shitty ones, Dad."

"…Excuse me?"

I'm hovering over him almost immediately. To my surprise, he doesn't back down. Instead, he returns my glare tenfold.

"Linden, Salas, _stop it!"_ Delia hisses, pleading. Heeding her words I back down, loosening my stance. The reasons why things are they way they are so obvious, yet escape is far out of reach.

She follows me into the kitchen. "W-Where are you going, Lin?"

Collecting my trilby from off the counter, I crane my head toward her. "I'm going out for a drink. Don't wait up."

…

It doesn't take long to arrive at the poorest sector of town, more specifically _Jackson's Booze 'n' Cruise._ It was a secluded, standalone two storey building bordering a nearby forest. Exiting my car I keep my head inclined while ignoring the mostly men and few women milling about outside, smoking their cigarettes and laughing lightly. Inside is the same deal, men with very few women, engaging in conversation within the various corners of the bar. My eyes scan the room until I focus on a white man flagging me down with a wave of the hand. _Daniel Arnett,_ the mailman.

"Over here Linden." He calls.

"Hello Dan." I greet.

"Hi Linden, how are you?" standing to meet me, he places a hand on my shoulder. That hand slowly drifts down to mine, brushing it lightly as he guides me down into the bench seat opposite. "I'm glad you came. I thought you weren't going to show."

"I thought I'd eat something first." I reply, wrapping my hands around the cool mug before me. "Thanks for the drink…you're always thinkin' ahead."

His green eyes twinkle with amusement. "Gold Standard, your _favorite_." and then after a few seconds of silence he asks "Are you still writing?"

"I wrote a piece of poetry last month. I was working a night shift on the orchard and the sunset was amazing, I had to take advantage." I reply. "What about you?"

He nods his head from side to side. "I'm in the process of finalizing one of my own pieces. I'll show you it when I'm finished."

"That sounds interesting, I can't wait t'see it." I say. The next couple of minutes are spent in awkward silence. I glance around cautiously, staring anywhere but to my front, where Dan stares longingly at me with a polite smile on his lips. My attention is brought back to him as his hands cup around mine once more.

"I brought you here because I wanted to talk about _us."_ He says. "I'm tired of our ' _openness'_. Don't you want something _more_ than that?"

I immediately retract my hands, keeping a watchful eye on the patrons or the door in which Peacekeepers could barge in at any moment. I reply with a subtle shake of the head. "There _can't be_ anything else. Don't you know where in Panem we live?"

" _Of course_ I do." He replies with a nod. "Yet people like us continue to live their lives… _together."_

"And of those people that do, does _anything_ come out of it besides a lost job and shunning?"

"Because what you have with your wife is _so fulfilling_?" he replies with equal terseness, but softens as he realizes the hurtfulness of the comment. "I was like you once, marginally unhappy, filling the void by following the norm. But as soon as I was rid of that weight I was much, _much_ happier. Commit to someone who cares about _you_ and shares _your_ interests…commit to _me."_

I sigh so hard I'd consider it a shudder. "I don't think I can do that just yet…I…I _can't_."

"I understand…" he consoles with a sad smile after a moment. "I was in the same spot as you are now. I'll still be here, waiting for that _special day."_

Rising out of the booth, I tap my watch. "I gotta go, can't stay too long."

He nods, that pleasant smile never escaping his face. "Goodbye Lin. Don't be a stranger."

When I dip into my car and close the door I beat my fists against the steering wheel, the dashboard and then _myself_ , wondering _why_ happiness was so out of reach.

* * *

 _ **Wondr'a Okafor, 30**_  
 _ **Disrtrict 11 Female** _  
May 19th, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

"Okay Wondr'a…let's take it from the top, repeat after me. _Hello_ , _my name is Wondr'a Okafor."_

Nodding, I wet my lips. "Hello, my name is Wondr'a O. . . Okafor." I rasp out, grimacing at how my voice comes off. It's hoarse and slow. Sure, it maintains the sweetness everyone loves, but the vivacity, the earnest was missing entirely.

Dr. Freeman wears a crooked frown mixed with confusion. "Okay, good…I'm sure you'll get that part down pat. It is your _name_ after all."

Taking his datapad, he jots something down on it, turning it towards me - ' _Extraneously'_ it says. "Could you say this for me?"

I find myself straining my eyes in an attempt to… _figure out_ what's on the screen. Just looking at the word gives me a headache, which _scares me._ I was a walking book before all this and now…thinking of big words were as hard as saying them. "Extr…Extra…Exteruh-ruh…"

Dr. Freeman shares a weary glance with my father, who leans against the counter a few feet away. His hands are folded in his signature 'thinking' pose while his dark eyes remain fixated on me, not moving for anything. The Doctor writes something else on the pad, showing it to me. _'I was speaking extraneously'._ "Could you say this sentence for us Wondr'a?"

I nod. "I was speaking extran…exterah… _extraneously_." I motion with my hands in a vain attempt to conjure up the word in its fullest. Saying it took more out of me than it _should have_. Adjusting his black-framed glasses, Dr. Freeman hums to himself while going over metrics.

"Well on the bright side, at least tremendous progress was made. Last week you couldn't speak at all."

"Will this condition persist?" presses Dad.

"It's hard to say, she took a hard hit to the head." Dr. Freeman shrugs, placing a gentle hand on my thigh. "As I said, her progress is amazing but these scans say otherwise. Luckily you guys got to her in time or else her condition would be much, _much_ worse. Physically, you're as right as rain! Mentally however…in a verbal sense…" he trails off, grimacing.

"So… _that's it?"_ I ask him, my voice croaking and my eyes becoming wet with tears. Being the good doctor he has ever since I was a toddler, he takes some tissues and pads down my tears.

"…Yes, for now." He replies sadly, "When it pertains to the recovery process, only time will tell." Reaching down, he unclasps the binds that bolted my feet to the observation chair. They wouldn't want me causing harm to anyone…or myself, apparently. "You can wait outside now. Your brothers should be out there waiting. Your father and I need to discuss some… _'familial guidelines'_ , shouldn't take too long. I recommend light work and activities that aren't mentally strenuous."

Exiting Dr. Freeman's office, my elder brothers Jeremiah and Miles are instantly off their feet. I bristle at Jeremiahs awkward hug and Miles' supposed… _not caring_ as he stands idly by with a sad smile on his face. It's funny how people begin to care for others only when the most… _scary_ of things happen. Sure, we're a busy family, the both of them being high-value teachers, that doesn't give them any excuse drop out and… _come back_ when they want to.

"How are you feeling?" Jeremiah soothes.

Miles places a hand on my shoulder. My frown is enough for him to get it off immediately. "Any updates?"

"I feel… _very bad_." I answer honestly. My mind continues to swim and not in the way it did before the accident. Where it used to swim with coding and equations, it swims with…mixed words, sadness and _anger._ "I'll be this way…forever."

Jeremiah makes a sound with his mouth. A sound of… _sadness_. I couldn't even look him in the eyes as he clutches my hands and caresses them. "Oh _Wondr'a_ …I know things have been distant, but I'm _so so_ sorry."

Dad leaves the Doctor's office, a smile on his face as he fiddles with his hat. "Good news, Wondr'a. Your cognitive functions and spatial functions are cleared for work. I spoke to the folks at the Labor Ministry and…"

"… _Work?!"_ I squeal, prompting patients and orderlies to glance my way in shock. Even Miles and Jeremiah flinch back. Work was the very same thing that got me placed in here, and he wants to throw me back in and run me _ragged_ again!?

" _Yes_ , my dear." Dad replies. It's as if unaware of how I look or my response. "The Elenen virus won't take care of itself you know. You were _so close_ to finalizing a new computing operating system. Much more efficient than the older versions that _stupid_ glitch is eating away at. Governor Wallace would be extremely pleased if you pulled District 11 into a more positive light and… _Wondr'a,_ where are you going?"

Just as I begin to leave, a hand grasps my shoulder. "Woah woah woah…Wondr'a, _come back!"_

Shoving Jeremiah's hand off of me, I turn to meet their faces. My chest… _goes up and down_ and my eyes are… _shaking_. All these years of trying to be the best, of trying to be what _they_ want me to be. Well, I'm sick and tired of it for _once_. I wish they'd left me to die in my office. It would've been very… _fitting._

"Just…Just _leave me alone_ , _okay_?!" I seethe, my eyes… _shaking_ in anger.

Jeremiah, his face… _scared_ , quickly backs away as Dad and Miles look on with startled expressions. They were not the only ones. People were beginning to openly stare too, but I didn't care one bit as I stomp off and leave them in the hallway where they stand.

…

The… _upside_ of my injury allows me some breathing room to finally get out and do what I _want_ to do. The next morning I attend Alphonso Irving's wellness session on his co-op. Hailing from a rich Eleven family with holdings in Capitol Agriculture, he uses his shares to maintain this plot of land, a cottage and a farm right next to a lake and surrounding forest. It was _perfect_. When obligations became too much, Alphonso's co-op served as a perfect escape.

It wasn't only me who thought that. Men, women, boys and girls, young and old of _all_ colours from _all_ walks of life sit in this semi circle. Some of us forgo the hair relaxers, beehives and bouffants that seem to be in style. We wear our hair natural, long and proud, our clothes made from scratch and made _well,_ adorned with beads and creative patterns of our imaginations. Some of them live this life more seriously than I do, but I try to follow along too.

' _Bohemians'_ they call us, meaning… _different._ I'd rather be that than a ' _scientist'_.

"My Brothers and sisters," Alphonso greets. "I know that living in this society – _especially in the month of May_ – can be very taxing on our respective psyches. To combat this, I ask that you join me in tapping into _ourselves_ so that we can return our bodies to a more _balanced_ state, a state in which we toss away all our worry, replacing that negative energy with _confidence_ and _resolution_."

All together, we each take a breath. As a chime rings out, we let out a long and collective _"OM!"_

"Listen to the _water_ lapsing against the lake behind us. Feel the _breeze_ blow around you, the _birds_ chirping. _Channel_ that energy. _Deepen_ your connection with the Earth and its bounties, find your _Zen_."

It's easy to find my Zen. Repeating the chant a couple more times, Elenen tg, the laboratories, the meetings, all of it melts away. Instead, I can feel Momma's spirit around me, and… _pictures_ of us gardening and walking through the forests pop into my head. I felt this feeling when I cracked my head open in a fit of anger a week ago. Part of me wishes I could feel it _forever_.

After a moment, Alphonso claps his hands once while leaping to his feet. "Alright, now stand with me, take a few breaths and stretch out some."

We do just that, slowly rising to our feet, exchanging friendly glances as we take a few constructive breaths and stretches.

"I hope y'all feel somewhat more grounded." Alphonso says. "Pardon my latin ya'll, but this country – this _district_ – is fulla some dead fuckin' minds. But we, and our cousins across the nation, are a part of a new age. An age in which we aren't just mindless drones slaving away nine to five, an age where compassion and care of self – and those around you in tandem – reigns supreme. Take care of yourselves, and each other. That's all we can do in times like these. Have a pleasant day."

As the crowd disperses in friendly conversation, Alphonso quickly makes his way toward me. He was an attractive man, tanned skin, friendly brown eyes. Like me, he was caught between professional life and the life of a bohemian. Where his black hair was slicked like a businessman, a bandanna adorned his forehead. Where he wore a short-sleeved button-up, a buckskin vest was over it with flared slacks and no shoes to cover his feet.

"How are you, Alphonso?" I greet, hugging him. When we release, I present him with a tin from my tote bag. "I brought you my chocolate chip cookies you enjoy so much."

His expression is visibly shocked as he hears the tone of my voice. Frowning, he places the cookies on the ground while extending a tanned, muscled arm to my shoulder as his hand gently rubs it. Clucking his tongue, he says "Wondr'a, Wondr'a…always playing mother hen. But who's tending to _you_ I wonder?"

My smile sad, I can only shrug. "You know me…I _like_ making people happy."

"A blessing and a curse man, a _blessing and a curse._ " He sighs. "I heard through the grapevine about your accident…we all gotta make a living, but we don't need to be slaves to the system entirely." He holds both my shoulders, bringing me in for a hug. "Heed my words this morning, okay? _Please_ try and take it easy."

"I'll try." I nod, turning to leave.

"Hey Wondr'a…!" he calls after me. Turning around, I watch as Alphonso gestures his hands into what looks like a bird flying. I'm not sure where this sign comes from. I've seen it on the news many times though when they cover this ' _new age_ ' movement.

"Fly high, girl."

Smiling, I copy him. "Fly high, Al. Thanks for the…meditation."

…

Back from the co-op, I keep the culture alive by tending to my garden here at home. It's the old family home, here with us for generations. With Dad, Jeremiah and Miles further in Eleven's capital, I remain in the rural outskirts on my lonesome, content with the one-half storey house. With Mama's ashes spread across this soil I till right now, I have too much invested here to leave. Besides, with most folks being… _not rich_ , they like my being here and sharing what I harvest.

Behind me, a shadow… _comes over me._ "Well I'll be dammed…Wondr'a, you're _finally_ back."

Stabbing my trowel into the dirt I turn toward the familiar voice of Otel Sharps. Standing I quickly embrace him in a hug, finding myself clinging to his chest rather than his shoulder if we were of near or equal height. "Have you gotten _bigger_ on me, Mr. Sharps?" I muse playfully.

" _Maybe_ , I suppose tilling away on an orchard will do that t'you." He replies with a charming smile of his own. I guess that's very true. Years of working away on the orchards have made the young man strapping. You'd think he was grown at first glance, especially with his daughter Gloria glued to his hip.

"Hi Gloria," I coo while waving towards her, something she returns with a shy grin. She transitions from his arms to mine easily, latching her arm around my neck and laying her head on my shoulder as if I were her own Momma. That's usually how it goes anyway, as her mother is far too young and… _not smart_ to deal with her proper. At least that's what Otel says.

"She's a little tired, runnin' me ragged over at that new park they opened."Otel explains.

"Is that so?" I turn to her now, bopping her on the nose. "I know jus' the thing to perk you up. Would you like some cookies?"

"Uh-huh." She murmurs, nodding…v _ery fast._

Inviting them inside, I treat Gloria to my cookies she loves so much, as well as a few articles of clothing I made from scratch for her to wear, and she wears them well. Because of her being here the talk between Otel and I is simple, nothing about what's been happening in my life or between us, why I've been so distant. While Gloria plays, we just sit there on the opposite ends of the couch, exchanging longing looks. An hour later when he comes back from taking Gloria home, I greet him at the door, latching to him instantly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, running a hand through my dark curls. "All those days spent waitin' around, sure it was only a week but it felt like forever. I thought you were hurt bad, or _worse_."

He's so _mature_...so much more caring than the men Dad sets me up with. He actually _cares_ about me. I shake my head, and the tears that come with doing it. "I'm _so so_ sorry I didn't tell you about what happened…I didn't want you to worry about me so much and –"

Clutching me by the cheeks, his lips capture mine. First I feel surprise and then slack as I loll in his embrace, trying to remember the _last_ time I've received affection like _this_ from anyone else. The answer was _none._

"I missed you." He breathes, his earth brown eyes gazing into me. If I could look from the outside, my eyes were probably as wide and… _enamored_ as his were. Overcome with deep warmth, my hands reach up and clasp his. My heart _aches_ and I feel very _dizzy._ All I wanted was _more_.

"…I missed you too." I rasp.

…

Soon after, we find ourselves lying in bed. Nuzzled against Otel I find myself drawing lines on his bare chest, feeling the thumping of his heart as his chest rose and lowered.

"I feel… _better._ " I say aloud, finding myself frowning as soon as the words leave my lips. I watch as he chuckles quietly to himself.

"Doing what we did tends t'do that." Otel replies behind closed eyes, prompting a quiet laugh from me.

"Yeah, but this time...was different." Sure, the whirlwind that was my mind has settled. But this was only _temporary -_ the mediations, the affection between Otel and I. The storm will come back…and with that storm the disconnect I feel between myself and…well, everyone.

"If the unthinkable happens and they reap you, I'll look after your folks." he says out of the blue minutes later. I let out a slight chuckle. If it were anyone else, I wouldn't take their word. But at only eighteen, he's been doing a lot of looking after others.

"I mean it." He replies evenly. "You do _everything_ for everyone else…for me, for Gloria. It's only right."

"You're something else, Otel Sharps." I murmur, settling down on his chest again.

That feeling comes back almost instantly, my mind slowly becoming a jumble once more while I glance at a still Otel and then up toward the ceiling. Now that I think about it, the disconnect I feel is more… _bigger_ than I thought.

If I wasn't pushed so far, if I didn't throw my life away to the sciences and followed what I felt…wouldn't I be with someone _my own_ age, raising a child of _my own?_ Quietly, I move away from Otel's form, watching as he sleeps away. What is he to me, really?

I can't shake away that he is just another… _sign_ of my failure.

* * *

 _ **Paisley Linscott-Gordon, 39**_  
 _ **Co-Victor of the 76th Hunger Games**_  
May 24th

* * *

Just as I leave my office my secretary, Eloise, rises to her feet having just gotten off the phone. She was alone, everyone else being away due to Reaping Day. Eloise herself is a year off of the age pool. She aided my mother in the running of the school and now she aides me, still sharp as she was since she started all those years ago.

"How was the call with Governor Wallace?" She asks.

I scoff, shaking my head. After a week of rioting pertaining to a death of a harvester earlier this month, he was at his wits end. "How calls with him usually go, extremely one-sided."

"How about he start makin' some changes for us black folk?"

I smirk. "You tell him that, God knows how many times I've tried. How are they?" I ask Eloise for the millionth time. Opening the door, I usher her through. "Walk with me, talk with me." Even though it's been a day since I've visited them, you can never take injuries like they sustained for granted.

"It was a typical thumping by Peacekeepers." Eloise replies. "Studded gloves, batons maybe? Give them a day or two more and they'll be cleared for release."

I breathe out a sigh of relief. "Oh _thank God._ You see, _I told_ them to stay away from those damn riots!"

"You know how those things go Paisley…the Peacekeepers don't discriminate between dissident or passerby."

"All the more reason to stay their asses _put."_ I snap back. "I can't leave Eleven without drilling that into their heads."

Pushing through the double doors, we find ourselves in the auditorium of _Linscott-Gordon School for Wayward Children._ Seated in front of me, two hundred and fifty of the school's senior students quickly hush all conversation. Consisting of eighteens and nineteens, half of them are under this year's reaping pool or due to a lack of tesserae usage, barely didn't qualify to attend this year.

The thought of that makes me smile. Hundreds upon hundreds of children spared from the Games each year because of the work we do here, because I decided to put my influence and monies to good use rather than not.

As the tech kids up above give me the go ahead, I take my place at the podium as Eloise takes her place behind me. With a smile, my eyes scan across the room at the inquisitive faces that look back at me.

"Good morning seniors." I greet.

"Good morning, Momma Paisley." They chime back. 'Not Principal Gordon' or 'Ms. Gordon', but _'Momma Gordon'. It's_ funny how this title tends to go over my head year after year as orphan child after orphan child shows up on campus grounds.

"That's right, ' _Momma Paisley'_." I nod. "I consider each and _every one_ of you as my own. Now, if y'all give a lick about me, you listen to what I have to say."

I move from the podium and begin to pace. As I do this, I continue to scan the congregation.

"Listen ya'll, I understand that we may have some…' _grievances'_ with how society is currently. I realize that some of y'all continue to work at processing plants and orchards and see firsthand how unjust things may be. Some of your peers, here and outside campus maybe inclined to take matters into your _own_ hands – especially with coming events. I called you here today to ask that you _abstain_ from such thoughts and actions."

"Look around Momma," calls a student from the upper rows. All eyes glance toward him as he rises from his seat. Koring I recall his name was. "Someone's gotta do something to cause change!"

"Sonya, Maurice, Maize and Till are in the _hospital_ because they thought like you." I reply pointedly. "Luckily they were just _bystanders_. What happens if you get caught up in a riot and the Peacekeepers detain _you?_ Students are _impressionable_. And without me being here to make a difference, they swarm this school? Outside these walls, if you didn't have the name of this school behind you, I'd bet that many folks wouldn't give a _lick_ about y'all. So, for the sake of the school and for the sake of future children in need, I need your _cooperation_. Think about the school and your siblings."

My words for the most part hit home, as various students nod and murmur among themselves. I repeat this speech again to the juniors and sophomores, these two being far more obedient than the young adult seniors. Eloise and the on-campus orderlies will take care of the children.

With things at the School all squared away, it was time to attend the reaping. Exchanging goodbyes with some of the students, I make my way toward the waiting limousine.

"Do you think they understood where you were comin' from?" Eloise asks. I shake my head, stopping before the car as the chauffer begins to open the door.

"As long as most of them understood…that's all we can ask for."

…

"I ain't ever seen so many Eleveners in one spot…" I murmur, taking in the multitude of cars parked on every street corner.

Due to the number of people attending this year's ceremony, they host today's proceedings in a park a little ways from the Justice Building. A makeshift, yet intricate stage was set up at the bottom of a ridge where a gargantuan cluster of people stand bunched together. Dotting the surrounding hills stood the spectators. The reception area is surprisingly crawling with the press, the bulbs of their cameras already flashing as we pull in.

It was the centennial year of their Games…although part of me thinks they're just here to catch the probable tussle between the public and the Peacekeepers and spin it for the airheaded audience back in their city.

I scoot over to the door as the chauffeur circles around to my side. _Haah…calm down Paisley._ With a deep breath I emerge from the limousine, putting on my most genuine smile even though I wanted nothing less than to strangle the mob of reporters that gather around me. I politely deflect their questions, instead making a beeline straight to Zinnia and Clarence, who wait idly by.

"Hi Missus Gordon." Zinnia greets with a weak smile.

"Hello child," I greet back, turning towards my elder brother. I'm surprised my warm expression persists on. "Clarence."

He inclines his head slightly, "Paisley." He replies, his tone curt. I turn towards his wife, a pale-skinned woman named Susan and my twin nieces Madison and Rachel and greet them as well. At least the _children_ are oblivious and have respect.

"Now let us welcome our district's Victors…." The voice of Governor Wallace drawls. "I present to you Clarence and Paisley Linscott-Gordon and Zinnia Parsons!"

Boxed in by a squad of Peacekeepers, the four of us are marched down the middle aisle under respectful applause, although the glares from many members of the audience are noticeable. A district alderman who forgets where he's from, Clarence's pro-Capitol stance is well-known here. He takes it all in stride, his posture tall and unrepentant with a smirk on his face. If he weren't here, I doubt we'd need the Peacekeeper escort.

Walking down, one can't help but notice all the dark faces that resembled mine as we made our way to the stage where the men and women sitting on stage were _far paler_ , their cohorts most likely watching the ceremony from the safety of their homes. Momma did always tell me some things _never_ change.

"What is that…?" Zinnia murmurs, pointing towards a looming object in the sky. It was a hovercraft of sorts, as wide as an apartment building. Like most hovercraft until it wants to, it makes no noise as it looms in the distance.

"It's a new type of hovercraft. I saw it on the news." Clarence says. "They say it could crowd control an entire city block."

I turn my attention back to the stage as I mount the steps and take my seat. Just _another tool of oppression…_

"Now, if ya'll could please give a warm District 11 welcome to the lovely Octavia Philips – our escort to the Capitol!"

Wearing a white swing dress with various fruit printed on it, Octavia zips to the microphone as fast as her heels can take her. Eying the crowd, her ruby lips parting to reveal her snow white teeth. Where Octavia shares our skin colour, that's where all comparisons end.

"Thank you, _thank you_ Governor Wallace for your _kind_ introduction!" the young Escort beams, as the lackluster clapping dies down. "And hello to you all, District 11! I would like to welcome _you_ to the Fourth Quarter Quell and the One Hundredth Hunger Games! Of course, we have a special _new_ film to usher in a new era of Games. Let's take a look, shall we?"

Since Snow, we've had four presidents. This time, It's President DeWynter's turn to narrate the yearly film they shove down our throats. Only this time, the triumph against the mockingjay and her followers are touted. As the film ends, Octavia's updo jostles as she breaks out with applause.

"I _absolutely adore_ her voice…well, let us begin with the selection of our two tributes who will valiantly represent District 11 in this year's _historic_ Hunger Games!" The click of her heels bounce off the speakers as she makes her way to the lever. "I'll begin with the boys this time around. _Change_ is good, as they say."

Grunting, she pulls the lever downward. All eyes immediately turn towards the holographic screen as a multitude of male faces scroll and scroll until fixating on one. "Our male tribute is Linden Norton!"

There's a sharp gasp as the man in question slowly makes his way out of the forties section and out into the aisle. His dark skin as pale as the day he was born, he slowly rolls up the sleeves of his checkered button up before joining the Peacekeepers in escorting him down.

"Linden!"

He turns back, watching as a woman stumbles out of the section opposite to him.

"LINDEN!?" She shrieks, more frantic than the last. She begins to move toward him, but a boy quickly moves from the nineteen's at the front and escorts her aside, alongside other men and women. Her cries could be heard even as the Peacekeepers hustle Linden up the stage and place him by Octavia's side.

Looking at the crowd, you can see the hatred in their eyes. Instead of standing still they begin to stir in their spots. The Peacekeepers, noticing this, finger their rifles. Is it me, or is that special hovercraft _closer_ than it was before?

One stern look and a rolling motion with my hand at Octavia is enough to get her rolling again. "Yes, onto the females now…and our female tribute is Tera Hutchinson!"

"… _Tera?"_ Zinnia croaks, her eyes glistening with tears. Zinnia isn't the only one with ties to Tera, as groans and gasps are heard across the sections as clear as day.

"Who's Tera, what's wrong?" I ask, looking towards the camera screen for answers. I didn't need to because almost immediately, the nineteen to twenty-year-old section creates a circle around Tera who confined to a _goddamned wheelchair!_

With a blanket covering her legs, the girl scans around frantically, looking for a lifeline that is nowhere to be seen.

"The rules are there _rules_ to abide by?" asks Governor Wallace.

"In my brief years of study, I don't recall any protocol revolving obvious disability…" Octavia shrugs, flinching as the audience finally boils over.

"Seriously, you gotta be kidding me!"

"She's in a wheelchair…I wouldn't put this behind them, it's the _Capitol_."

"You people are honestly gonna let this fly?" Are just some of the things I pick up from the front rows.

The scorn on Clarence's face is evident as he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "If they hate the idea of her in the Games so much, why don't they quit bitching and _volunteer_ for Snow's sake? God knows they have the chance, yet they _refuse_ to take it."

It looks like the parents are trying to do just that. A little ways further in the forties section, a man and a woman argue fervently amongst themselves. That is…until the speakers in the sections pick up a voice…or so I think.

"I…unteer!" Someone cries in the distance. Octavia steps forward and the crowd silences a tad. "I'm sorry. Did someone out there say something?" Octavia says, shielding her eyes to find the person responsible.

All eyes watch as a woman in turquoise scrubs – a short sleeved dress that reached her knees with white loafers – stumbled out of the thirties section. She was dark-skinned with black curls that reached her shoulders. She was extremely petite for a thirty year old, and could easy fit in with the kids in their early twenties.

"I volunteer as tribute!" she says once more, her voice shaky yet confident.

"Well, please come on down!" Octavia says, her perkiness returning as she makes a beckoning gesture.

The parents are more than elated, hugging and kissing the young woman before finally allowing the Peacekeepers to escort her forward. As they do this, all eyes follow her every move. Most noticeably, three men from the back sections step into the aisle with shock on their faces – family probably. When she reaches Tara, the girl is quick to take her by the hand, pull her downward and whisper into her ear. Although we can't hear it, it looks like Tara is thanking the woman a million times over.

"Wondr'a!"

Just as she bounds the stairs, the cameras focus on a young man with a baby clutched to his waist. The Peacekeepers allow him to hug the girl as he engages in some sort of dialogue with her. Seconds pass as she smiles and caresses his cheek. I couldn't hear it, but I think she said 'I love you' before turning and continuing her march up the steps and toward Octavia.

"Wow…just _wow!"_ the Escort gushes. "I…I have no words! When was the last time we had a volunteer here in Eleven? And when was the last time we had a volunteer in all of Panem that showcased your compassion and grace?!" she places a hand on 'Wondr'a's shoulder. "What's your name my friend, I bet all of Panem are dying to know!"

"…Wondr'a Okafor." She warbles. She sounds 'slow'…but even folk that aren't so bright know that volunteering in a non-career district is a death sentence. There has to be _more_ to the story. Even Governor Wallace, who usually shows no care to the reaping of dark-skinned denizens, watches on with intrigue.

I lean over to the man, tapping his shoulder. "Who is she, Governor?"

"She's Wondr'a Okafor. She, her pappy and the rest of her folks are some of the best minds Eleven has ever had…why would she give that all up?"

"…Hmm." Now that I look at the father, who continues to gawk in confusion, I've seen him before, recruiting some of my brightest students for PATT – _Panem Advanced Technical Training_ , at Eleven's university. So she _isn't_ _dumb._ Why volunteer? Why give it all up?

Judging by the looks of awe in the audience, they too find her as admirable as I do now.

"That's a _marvelous_ name, Wondr'a." Octavia replies softly, turning towards the crowd. "I think Wondr'a deserves a heartfelt round of applause for taking after her fellow citizen!" We here in Eleven don't clap at all on Reaping Day and if we do, we don't do it to please. Although this time is different. There is a smattering of applause and nods of approval.

…And there's something else too. The cameras focus on a segment of the crowd who make a gesture with their hands, so much like gesture I was introduced to over twenty-five years ago. Taking both of their hands, men and women dressed in intricate patterns – _bohemians_? – gesture their hands like a bird flying in the air.

"Get those Snowforsaken dropouts outta here!" Governor Wallace barks to a Peacekeeper Officer. "Eleven is in a good spot and I'll be _dammed_ if a buncha dregs _ruin_ that."

Octavia maintains her smile. "Right…and so ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you District Eleven's tributes for the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games – Linden Norton and Wondr'a Okafor!"

As the two are escorted away, the Peacekeepers are quick to disperse the crowd while detaining those who appeared unconventional in dress. That hovercraft in the sky seems a _lot more_ distant now. Unlike some other districts, the situation here was fine…for now, which is _good_ as there is a time and place for everything. At least now we won't be condemned as soon as we step off the train.

When was the last time Eleven experienced something like this?

"This sounds _wrong. But_ I've never felt this way about a tribute before." Zinnia says, watching as the two tributes are placed in a car.

I place a hand on her shoulder. "I have.

Her brows furrow in confusion. "With who?"

"Well, _you_ of course."


	18. D12: An Aide and A Young Woman

**_A/N:_** _And here we are – the final reaping. I assume that (all) of you are young adults now, so you aren't exactly 'dying' to hear from me again, seeing as you have your own lives to lead. My apologies, I was away for a week, and then I decided to revise the entire chapter. I plan on doing that more often – really making sure that everything is okay on a technical standpoint._

 _In terms of timing..this wasn't too bad right? It only took...roughly six months to finish the first act of the SYOT in which many barely complete at all. And the updates were pretty steady. Oh, and it was the generic District 1-12 introductions, so you gotta give me credit._

 _I hope that you guys are satisfied with the initial showcase of your characters. I'd like to think I did okay, besides SPAG screwing me over every now and then._

 _Forgive me, as we move on to the second act of the SYOT. The next update shouldn't be too long, as I've been working behind the scenes._ I'm very excited for the interviews and what not, and I hope you guys are too.

Once again, I'm sorry for the slight delay...I was supposed to update this yesterday but I wanted to proof it some more.

 _Thanks TJ and Haiden for your tributes once more._

* * *

 **Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**  
 **District 12: A Rigid Aide and A Determined Young Woman**

* * *

 _ **Kaviraya Parathi, 29**_  
 _ **District 12 Male**_  
May 21st, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

I awake to Varendra's wet nose rubbing against mine.

I slowly open my eyes to reveal the grey tabby gazing back at me, her green eyes unblinking. She quickly lets out a meow, moving down to where my legs lie as she kneads the fabric of the covers. Where neighborhood strays were anything but, Varendra deserves a medal for ' _most affectionate cat'_.

"Good morning, V." I say, receiving another low meow in return. Turning on my datapad, I notice a notification from Mayor Simms himself. ' _Don't come in until past eleven!'_

I scowl at the message. _Why_? Even though it's Saturday, work still needs to be done on a preparatory level and Gods know that I need to be there to make sure things run smoothly, especially with Reaping Day and the upcoming Fourth Quarter Quell.

Swinging my legs from the bed to the cold wooden floor below while caressing V's chin, I begin my routine regardless. The radio yesterday called for light rain, so I decide on grey slacks and a navy sweater for today. No use dirtying a good suit for poor weather. Reviewing today's agenda, I eat away at my breakfast at my modest kitchenette table as V devours the can of tuna I give her at my feet. Besides the pitter patter of rain outside, my small apartment is quiet. Other than the news, I have no use for television. I already checked the forecast for today and the music they put on is very… _grating._ I've also grown tired of being injected with propaganda. So, with an hour to spare, I sit down at my desk and finalize the documents Mayor Simms requested of me. As his executive assistant, the work is plentiful but it's all worth it, anything so that the people of Twelve can live with reasonable comfort. With breakfast finished, my notes complete, V in her crate and my trench coat secured, I close the door to my apartment.

My shock immediately melts into annoyance as I turn toward the smiling, unblinking face of Mary Dunhill. Even though the day calls for bleary weather, this doesn't stop the blonde twenty-year-old from wearing a floral print dress and navy trench coat. In a district filled with muted colours, she looked like a _discount Capitol_ at best, always managing to stick out.

Startled, I sigh, murmuring under my breath "Oh _sweet Panem…"_

"Oh hello Kavi, boy is it nice to see you this morning…or afternoonish, I ain't complaining!" Bubbles Mary. Bending down, she peers into the crate where V is held. "I see you're bringing your kitty along too, that's real nice."

I suppress the urge to groan. Why the _constant_ cheeriness? It's annoying and I'm not the only one who thinks so, yet she continues on anyway. Living where we do, I suppose we all have to stay sane somehow. "It's _Kaviraya_ , Mary…fort the millionth time. I bring V with me most days, what difference does it make now?"

"Erm, I dunno?" she shrugs, unperturbed by my coolness. "I just like the little gal is all. She reminds me of my pet cat. _Dolly_ was her name. She looked just like your cat too, but much more mean. God help us if we didn't feed her – _wait_ , wait up!"

I _don't_ wait. Instead, I march down the stairs, though the lobby and into the light drizzle that peppers District Twelve's Town Centre. It doesn't hold a candle to other urban districts like Six and Eight, instead hosting rustic brick buildings in which owners man their business downstairs and reside in the second and third storey's. Despite the rain, people still open up shop, popping up the tarp covers on their verandahs and turning on their storefront lights. Just as I activate my umbrella it seems Mary caught up. I instantly bristle when she latches her arm in the crook of my shoulder, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"Since you already have yours up, mind if we share?" she asks, batting her eyes and baring that _brainless_ grin on her lips.

Without a word, bar Mary's prattling about how her evening went, we walk a short way to the Town Square where Twelve's Justice Building is located. The surrounding shops and streetlights, including the front façade of the three-story building that housed Twelve's government were draped with pennants signifying the upcoming Fourth Quarter Quell. The maintenance crews work regardless of the light drizzle, trimming away at the trees and power washing the streets.

"They're going all out, aren't they?" Mary murmurs lowly, her eyes wide as she scans around the Square. "With _anybody and everybody_ on the chopping block this year, I wonder who it will be?"

I manage a simple shrug. Finally, something plausible comes out of her mouth. District 12 has changed drastically since the War. With the original population depleted, the Capitol deported many dissident families here, my mother included. Most people trace their family lineage from all over Panem, Thirteen chiefly. So when they base percentiles for reaping based on crimes against the Capitol, we all already know the numbers would be through the roof. Even now while we bound the steps, my eyes watch the two glass bowls on the landing. I also fear about the day in question. Our population dwarfs those of the rest of Panem, so literally _anyone_ was up for selection.

As we enter the offices of the Justice Building, that fear is cast aside for more practical thoughts. Thankfully, the offices are less chaotic than it is outside…but still active nonetheless. The secretarial pool is partially active, men and women alike manning their holoscreens or gathering around the coffee machine. Standing smack dab in the middle of it all, chatting with various bureaucrats, was a dark-skinned elderly man with salt and pepper hair and mustache.

"Good afternoon, Mayor Simms." I greet cordially, stepping into the middle of the crowd. I ignore their gawky stares. It's not like they were talking about anything worthwhile in the first place.

"…Ah Kaviraya my boy, how was your evening yesterday?" he replies, frowning as I reach into my satchel to retrieve my datapad.

"I have the report on the tesserae reform statistics here for you." I say. "I also have your speech for Reaping Day ready for you to review as well."

Mayor Simms cautiously takes the device and looks it over, handing it back to me with a smile. " _Huh_ …and completed _three_ _days_ before the due date, _good work_. We were just having some coffee to stave off the dreary weather, would you care to join us?"

"No, no thank you. I was thinking that you could go over the report you requested I do?" I reply, shaking my head. After working here for so long, I still couldn't help but wonder why they're so laid back? Honestly it's _annoying_. There are _plenty_ of things that could be done. Case work, answering letters from concerned Twelvers, _anything._

Glancing around at our colleagues who still wear those stupid expressions on their faces, the Mayor turns to me and nods, smiling. He gestures toward his office. "Okay…alright, it's not like much else is on the agenda for the month…mostly thanks to _you_."

"Although there are many things left to be done, I support your agenda, Sir. It's worth working toward." I reply with a smile of my own as he leads the way. I feel much more at ease now, for our conversation has _meaning_ instead of useless 'small talk'. "Even though Twelve is constantly given a short stick, you make the best of things."

It was true. Up until last year, Twelve was under the control of a Head Peacekeeper since the end of the War. When the nationwide elections were called, Mayor Simms managed to beat the Capitol-approved candidates due to his ability to rally miners, factoryhands and merchants alike. The Mayor beckons me into his office. Overseeing the entirety of Twelve's square, it was modestly furnished, filled with photos of supposed family and times of his youth.

"Us old-stock Twelvers are a ornery bunch, very resistant." Simms says. "When people count us out, we always seem to rise above – put a thumb in their eye. Even though you ain't old stock, you have this trait more than anyone else here."

"That's…true." I reply simply. Mentioning the past pains me, but he isn't wrong in that regard.

"Now, let's read this report you wrote up…Hmm, Twelve's secondary fire house is doing and hiring well, which means better wages. The new mining equipment is rolling in nicely…God knows those boys and girls need em. You see, I _knew_ pushing for the tesserae stamps to be brought here was a good idea. Give people some damn choice in what they eat."

"Since the introduction of the stamps and the Quarter Quell announcement, the eighteens have been taking advantage, buying what they can before they phase out next year." I add with a smile.

He hands me back my datapad, a cheerful grin on his lips. "This is _amazing_ work, Kaviraya. I couldn't ask for a better assistant."

" _Thank you_ , Mayor Simms." I say. "That means a lot to me."

"It's Archie my boy, for the _millionth_ time." He replies warmly, making a show of waving me off. "The report isn't the only thing I would like to go over, however."

"Oh?"

Moving from his desk, he peers out the window to the square below. "You remember Thomas, right? Of course you do."

I find myself nodding. Mr. Ogden was Simms's top aide and Twelve's eldest public servant. He passed away last month from a stroke.

"You're a man that gets to the point and I appreciate that. _So_ , I need a new chief of staff and I want you to fill Thomas' boots. What say you?"

"I-I'm sorry I didn't hear that quite right," I stammer. My back couldn't straighten anymore than it was now. "…Am I getting a _promotion_?"

Mayor Simms nods. "That you are my boy. You got drive, a little _too much_ of it if you ask me, but someone has to. So?"

" _Yes_ of course!" I perk up immediately, the cheeriness in my voice feeling very foreign as I clasp his hand and pump it downward. "I accept _wholeheartedly_. I won't let you down, never ever. You have no idea what this means to me, I genuinely appreciate the opportunity. I promise to live up to the standard Mr Ogden established. I -"

" _Okay, okay, okay_! I'm glad you accept. That settles it then." He replies, placing a hand over mine. " _Congratulations_ my friend, the paperwork is on your desk for you to fill."

As I leave the Mayor's office, it's apparent that the entire office staff knew before hand. I'm showered with polite applause. Mary even wheels in a modest cake from the bakery across the square. I couldn't remember the last time I felt genuine surprise and the happiness that accompanies it…not since before Mother passed.

"Thank you, thank you all for the surprise." I say aloud, meeting the eyes of my coworkers. "I genuinely appreciate it."

"Knowing you, I'm surprised you didn't ignore my order and come in anyway." Mayor Simms jeers while clamping me on the back, to the amusement of everyone else.

"Would you like some cake, Kavi?" chimes Mary, offering a plate. I don't even feel annoyance at her persistent nicknaming. Instead I give them a gentle wave of the hand as I turn towards my desk. "No thank you, you can go ahead without me. I have a lot of work to do."

With V nestled in my lap, I proceed with my work feeling ten times more dedicated to the cause of a better Twelve. To say that I wasn't ecstatic was an understatement. Me, _chief of staff_ to the mayor after spending _years_ as a downtrodden _nobody_ …I never thought I'd see this day. I'm so content not even the idiotic chatter of my coworkers and the music that accompanied them bothered me as much as it usually does.

"Hey Kavi, I got a visitor here to see you." Mary announces.

"A visitor?" I glance upward, meeting Mary's smiling face. She's not alone, however. My face hardens as my stepmother, Irene, stands beside her. It's been a while since she and I have seen each other. Her dark hair now streaked with grey and the corners of her eyes pocked with crow's feet, middle age seems to have only intensified her snobbish air. Snobbish from what I _recall._

Even though I've 'lived' with the woman for ten years, I consider the rats in the attic I was relegated to better guardians than she and my father.

"Hello Kaviraya." She greets cordially through a brittle smile. She knows there's no love lost between the two of us, yet she's brazen enough to march in here and meet me regardless of the past. "Why aren't you with your fellow coworkers?"

"I'm not much for pointless chatter." I reply dryly, continuing my work.

With her gloved hands she rests her purse to her front. "That's right...you always were a little odd from what I recall."

Adjusting my seating, I unbutton the collar of my shirt in an attempt to relieve my anger. _From what you recall,_ we've barely spoke a _word_ to each other let alone _stay_ in the same room to eat evening dinners.

"How did you find me?" I fling. All I wanted for her was to turn around and leave me.

"Being a part of the Mayor's campaign, I figured that you would find employment here." She explains while glancing around the office. "You seem to have done well for yourself. Congratulations."

"With no thanks to _you_ or _anyone_ else." I spit back, taking her false sincerity and lobbing it back at her. "What do you _want?_ "

Her 'pleasant' smile falters as she purses her lips. "Your father passed away two days ago – of a heart attack."

"Is that so?" I recline back in my seat, taking in the news. Losing a family member for many, especially in a place like Panem is a harrowing ordeal…yet I feel _nothing_ , _absolutely nothing_. And recalling all that has happened, that's _fine._

Irene nods. "With him serving as Twelve's Head Peacekeeper for a time, he's entitled to a funeral in District 2. He still has many friends there."

"In Two?"

"Yes. Districts' Affairs granted our transfer, Lucille, Matthias and I." reaching into her purse, she hands me two documents – excursion papers. "I came here to extend an invitation to come along with us for the funeral."

I stare lamely at the papers in her hands, glancing up at her. "And what makes you think I want to come along?"

Irene's face scrunches into a frown. "Well after everything he's done for you, I thought it was right that you attend and pay your _respects_."

" _Respects…_?" I snort, rising from my chair. "I owe no 'respects' to that _excuse_ of a man. Take your invitation and _shove it._ I'm _glad_ the bastard keeled over, _glad_! And I'm even more elated that you and those pathetic children of yours will be on the other side of the country!"

The conversations around us fall mute as all eyes are on the two of us now. I could care less about the others, instead focusing my glare towards the _wretch_ of a woman in standing in front of me.

"Now _get out_ of my sight before I call the Peacekeepers." I seethe, sliding the papers off the desk and onto the floor. She quickly grasps the documents, rising to her feet all while maintaining a watchful eye. And with a stiff upper lip, she turns to leave, her heels clacking against the floor.

Mary slowly reaches over and taps my shoulder. "Kavi are you oka-"

"It's _Kaviraya_ and I'm _fine_." I snap, clutching V towards me.

Mayor Simms stands opposite of Mary. From the corner of my eye I watch him wave his hand, prompting the rest of the office to continue about their business. "You don't _look_ fine, my boy. How about you head home and relax. Snow knows you deserve it."

I let out an airy scoff, flabbergasted by his proposition. _I'm_ being _dismissed_? As Simms gently places my coat over my shoulders, I'm quick to shrug them off.

"I told you I'm _fine_ , Mayor Simms. Why can't you guys _understand_ that? I prefer to be _here_ doing my job. I do everything that's required of me. _Everything_. Why am I being penalized?"

"Just _listen_ Kaviraya, we care about you." Mary intones softly. Mayor Simms places a hand on her shoulder, gently moving her aside. "You're not being penalized, Kaviraya. Hell, I just _promoted_ you for Panem's sake. I want you to _relax_. Take a day off, and come back on the twenty-third."

I shake my head, sighing. "An _entire_ day? But – but there's _so much_ that needs to be done…"

I'm silenced by one of his firm hands grasping my shoulder. "Boy, you're blowing things out of proportion here. And it's not a good look."

I look beyond my desk. Regardless of the Mayor's warding off, many staffers continue to look on – _whispering_ to themselves about me no less, _judging_ me _._ If it were them, they'd leave in a heartbeat. Of course they would, they aren't nearly as _dedicated_ as I am.

"… _Fine._ " I say simply, shoulders drooping as I rise from my chair.

Smiling, Mary raises a finger. "I could walk you home if you lik-"

"I don't need an _escort,_ thank you very much." I hiss with a wave of the hand. Putting V in her crate and assembling my things I storm towards the exit. Casting one last look towards my coworkers, I walk off.

* * *

 ** _Veradisia "Vera" Annora Smith, 19  
District 12 Female_**  
May 23rd, 2163 (HG 100)

* * *

"Did you find a bird you fancy, Smith?"

"I believe so…" I hum, my eyes scanning through the selection of meats before my finger points toward one I find suitable. Given the holiday season, I'm surprised the selection for meats is this plentiful. "I'll take that turkey please."

Mr. Dunning extinguishes the cigarette in his hand, smirking as he collects the meat and packages it in a paper bag. With the price he was listing for that piece of meat even with the 'Reaping Day sale', I could tell he's content someone took it off his hands.

"That was my finest bird Smith. You guys must take Reaping Day dinners seriously under your roof?"

"It's been a century since. We might as well go big or go home, Mr. Dunning." I reply with a smirk of my own. By all accounts, this may well be my last home cooked meal.

"You ain't wrong one bit, Smith." Punching in the item, he reveals the total. "Usually, a bird like this runs you thirty PD's, but for you it's _twenty_."

"Thank you Mr. Dunning, I appreciate the…" I quiet when a mother and her son enter the store, waiting until they move towards the back. "… _adjustment_."

He waves me off. "Don't mention it, Smith. Besides, I've more to talk to you about."

"Oh?" I reply with a raised eyebrow. Mr. Dunning was the definition of a 'self-made' man. Alongside this general store he runs with his wife, he serves as foreman of Mine 15 – my supervisor.

"You're something else, kid. Five years ago, I figured you were some scrawny fifteen-year-old who wouldn't last a week. Now look at ya, a _tunnel supervisor._ Sure, you're supervisin' kids, but I've never seen a person whip them into shape better than you. _Zero_ workplace accidents within a year, an _eighty percent_ efficiency rating…you're on a roll, Smith. In layman's terms, have I told you how great you are?"

" _Yes_ , but a girl doesn't tire from hearing it." I smile. "I was tasked with a job, wasn't I? If I'm given a task, I think its right to move mountains to get it done."

Father always said I was my mother's child. Unfortunately I can only go off his experience with her to know. In Twelve, you have to pursuit tasks with _diligence_ , if not you would flounder. And we all know what happens when one flounders in Twelve. That easily extended to my peers who work alongside me. If we all work together, the better off we'd be.

"Me and the board were thinking about making a shuffle. And that shuffle includes _you_ as supervisor for the whole of Level One. What do you say, kid?"

Self-conscious all of a sudden, I find myself placing a hand to my chest. Mr. Dunning wasn't wrong. Just five years ago I entered his office as a reluctant fifteen-year-old, enlisting only for the sake of Chan and Father. Fast forward a tad and here I am on the cusp of being promoted to a _level manager._ With the wage boost that's sure to come with the title, we'd no longer be on shaky ground. Chan could probably go off to District 8 and _study_.

Alas, I offer a polite smile as I shake my head "No.".

Mr. Dunning gawks at me as if I had five heads. "May I ask why the hell not?"

"Unfortunately, I have a calling higher than myself that need tending to." I answer, my smile growing as he frowns at my cryptic response.

Folding his arms, Mr. Dunning lets out a hearty chuckle. "That must be one hell of a 'calling' then."

"You have _no idea_ , Mr. Dunning."

No idea at all.

After securing meat for tonight's dinner, I exit _Dunning's General Store_ and step onto the streets of Twelve's Town Center. I find myself having to use my black parasol to block out the sun and shield myself from its rays. Even with the splash of color emigrants from other districts of Panem bring to Twelve, my platinum blonde hair and albino-white skin sticks out among the masses. It was quite lively as per usual, the Town Centre, bustling with people shopping for Reaping Day dinner or conversing among themselves. Even a car passes by with pop music playing aloud from its radio. The only blotch on a rather innocent scene was the Justice Building itself. Dressed with streamers and Panemian eagles, workers continue to put the final touches on the stage for tomorrow's 'festivities' all while the radio chatter from the guarding Peacekeepers are audible.

I glance upward as the Town Clock strikes two. This means I have exactly _twenty-four hours_ of normalcy.

With a smile on my face, I join the rest of the crowd in their commute. Better get moving, lest I waste those hours.

 _…_

Approaching my home I smile when our dear neighbor, a weathered old woman with a slight hunch hobbles off our front porch. When I wasn't of age to take up the task of caregiver, Ms. Saunders was there. I think Father, Chan and I would agree in saying the title of _'honorary grandma'_ goes to her.

"Vera! How are you my sweet, cooking up a Reaping Day dinner I see?" She inquires with a toothy grin. I'm quick to lean down and give the older woman a hug.

"Hello Ms. Saunders," I reply, returning her beaming smile. "Yes, yes I am. How's your flu holding up?"

"I'm doing much _much_ better, thanks to your _wonderful_ father." She replies, jostling a bottle of what sounds like pills in a paper bag. "If I didn't have him, I'd have to give up _an arm and a leg_ for these."

Frowning, I nod firmly in understanding. It's funny how with the label of 'forsaken district', people from all over the nation come here for medical rehabilitation. The medicine and open spaces tend to work wonders...the latter being one of the only upsides of living here. Even though Twelve has started dabbling in medical development, it's funny how the people who _make_ the things barely have access to them. Then again, living in a district that comprises of deported 'traitors', I wouldn't care for them either.

"Father tends to care heavily about others more than him." I explain. Thankfully instead of slaving away in a mine he works at a pharmaceutical plant - mid-level at that. At least then he isn't pestered by Peacekeepers and can slip medicines out unperturbed.

"He must, otherwise those _dolts_ over in the Crown Jewel wouldn't have dumped him here." She jests while gently tapping my cheek.

Saying our goodbyes, I slip into our modest two-story home. Besides noise from the holovision, all is quiet. "Father, Channery?" I call out, moving past photos chronicling our childhoods towards the living room. And there they are, sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

"Hello Father, I'm back." I greet. My lips quirk as he grunts and nods, his attention focused wholly on the holovision.

All seems well…or _does it?_

For an answer on that, I cast a glance towards my twin sibling. Whereas I supposedly took after Mother's hardened persona, Channery was a daddy's girl through and through. Where we contrasted in personality, what they say about twins and 'connections' was spot on when it came to she and I. All we had to do was cast each other a look. One set of blue eyes locking with another. _What's wrong?_

Channery tilts her head toward him, her face terse. _Father is upset._

I myself quirking an eyebrow - _why?_

Channery turns toward the television, where the PBC covers a ceremony in the Capitol celebrating one-hundred years of supposed _'peace and prosperity'_. Imagines of Peacekeepers kissing their sweethearts and rebel soldiers with their hands raised in surrender as they're marched along flash across my vision. I couldn't help but wonder how one could genuinely celebrate that victory. Apparently the right to slew twenty-five children each year is a cause worth fighting for.

"I'm sorry love, _hello_. I'm glad you found some meat, an ample amount too by the looks of it." Father says softly, reclining into the sofa with a sigh. "This garbage gives me a migraine…yet I keep watching it. Maybe it's because I continue to ponder about what _could've been…_ "

"It's okay, Father. I imagine that many people feel the frustrations that you do." I reply with a nod. I suppose I would be pretty mad too, having victory swiped away from you.

"That I am _very_ sure about." Father replies, his frown subsiding a tad. "Are you ready for the reaping ceremony tomorrow, girls?" he asks, although he holds his glance with _me_ as he asks it.

"I'm sure things will go _smoothly_." I reply with a knowing smile, returning his gaze. We've been debating about this moment for little over a year. Channery, her brows furrowed in slight confusion, is unaware for good measure. She's too good to be caught up in the schemes of Father and myself.

"I'm glad you're in chipper spirits." He sighs, his voice slightly hoarse. "Channery made sandwiches to hold us over. Your share is on the counter."

"That sounds good." Smiling, I turning towards Chan. "Chan, do you mind helping me cut up some greens for dinner later?"

I quickly make my way to the kitchen. Channery follows me, retrieving a cutting board and some vegetables from the fridge as she joins me by the kitchen table, eyeing me like a predator does its prey as I take a seat and dig into my food. Swallowing, I shrug whilst flashing a smile.

"Is something the matter, Chan?"

"Why are you so perky all of a sudden?" she asks, resting her chin on her hands.

" _Perky?"_ I repeat, sitting up straight as I attempt to meet her gaze head on. I'm not sure where she gets it, but Channery could be something of an empath. To her, everyone is an open book waiting to be read.

"Usually you're tense around this time of year." She explains. "Always focused, never at ease…I've just noticed a little shift recently. It's interesting."

"Oh well you know, I'm just happy to get this reaping over with and continue on with fulfilling my purpose." I reply nonchalantly, smiling. It was a bold-faced lie…yet it _wasn't._

"Oh yeah, and what ' _purpose'_ is that?" she asks while chopping away at onions.

"Being something bigger than myself and serving others." I answer. It was an honest one too, but with multiple facets.

Eyeing me for what felt like a whole minute, Channery finally nods. "That's true. You've always been pretty diligent. It'd be nice to finally put the Reaping aside."

I nod. However, there was _a lot_ more I want put aside. About half an hour later, the doorbell rings. I'm surprised when Channery calls for me to come downstairs. Well, not quite, as I step toward the doorway to meet the face of Aspen Jessup.

"Hello Vera. It's been a while."

"Hello Aspen. You know me, just work, work, working..." I reply, turning to meet Channery as she eavesdrops from behind the corner. She snickers as I shoo her away. "Our shifts haven't compatible for us to meet I guess."

"Well, now that you're here I thought I'd come by, ask if you wanted to get in some last minute… _'practice'?"_

"Mmm…I would love to go out and ' _practice'_ with you." I reply while flashing the same coy smile he currently wears. I gesture to my shirtwaist dress. "Although I need to change, dresses aren't practical now are they? Now you wait here."

It appears Channery remained where she was. As I pass her by, her lips are twitched into a smirk and her eyebrow cocked inquisitively.

"I thought you weren't seeing him anymore?" she muses.

"What's wrong with remaining cordial?" I shoot back with a shrug. It's the least I could for him. I thought I could lower my walls with Aspen, like I do with Chan and Father. Unfortunately I have no time for sappy things like romance, unless it's in _novel form_ of course. Changed into dungarees, a shirt and a button-up I lead Aspen towards the garage. Opening it, I reveal my pride and joy, my prize for spending hours upon hours slaving away in the mines – a cherry red 2150 Zip! Scrambler motorbike. It isn't as impressive as a Peacekeepers' patrol monocycle, but it's _mine._

"Looking at that thing never gets old." He smirks.

"I'm starting to think the only reason you continue to hang out with me is because of it." I quip, mounting my bike.

"…No comment."Aspen responds, climbing onto a motorbike of his own. "Now c'mon, let's go."

…

When President DeWynter read that card back in January, all of Twelve was turned upside down from the stipulation. Being a district filled with outcasts from the war, you couldn't move from one block to another without someone talking about the entirety of Twelve's adult population being up for the reap and them being terrified about the prospect of being chosen.

Thankfully, Aspen's father and a handful of other Rebel veterans of the war set up this makeshift 'academy' in the basement of his gym. Between the reading of the card and now, anyone and everyone flocked here to prepare. Sure, stabbing pig torsos from _Dunning's_ with kitchen knives and makeshift swords wouldn't make us Career-level ready, but it was _enough_. Given the amount of time Aspen and I have sunk into this place, alongside the supplemental footage of past Games, it'd be more than enough compared to other tributes.

"I wonder what type of horrors the Gamemakers will unleash this time around?" I wonder. I equip an apron painted white. Our 'swords' had their tips dipped in red paint for a splash of realism. As per usual we seem to be attracting a decent audience, as a handful of people pause their workouts and nod in our direction.

"Good question. Let's see…More zombies, lizard mutts, _irradiated_ mutts…" Aspen drones on, counting the possibilities on his fingers as he shrugs. "It's been a _hundred_ years. The sky's the limit, if you ask me."

"All the more reason to prep for it," I say. "Let's begin, shall we? Give me your best effort."

"Are you sure about that?" he goads, making a show of twirling his 'sword'.

I nod, readying my stance. "I'm absolutely positive-"

He's on me in a millisecond, jutting his 'sword' toward my chest. With my left hand behind my back, I narrowly parry the blow with my right. On television, they always talk about weapons being the 'extension' of a tribute with considerable skill. This is how I feel to a tee, as me and Aspen enter into a dance of sorts. Swiveling, parrying, bobbing and weaving each others' blows. We weren't Career-level obviously, but our sparring wasn't a playground reenactment either. Our swords clash once more and with a flick of the wrist, my sword tumbles away. Aspen swipes for my midsection and I go down, avoiding his attack and sweeping his feet from under him. Aspen lets out a startled shout, his sword clattering to the floor beside him. I quickly collect it before he can, tapping the part of his apron where his heart would be. Lifting the sword, a red line marks the spot. I doubt actual fighting would be this cut and dry, but it's a start.

Aspen extends his hand toward me. " _Heh…Someone's_ taking this training _very_ seriously."

"In my opinion," I grunt, staggering backward as I clasp the hand of my bigger friend and pull until he's up on his feet. "If you do something, see the task is done with full effort."

"I can't exactly argue otherwise." Aspen shrugs. "So…How are you feelin', Smith? You scared for tomorrow?"

" _No_ not at all." I reply innocently, making no attempt to suppress the grin that creeps onto my lips.

 _I feel more resolute than I ever felt in my nineteen years of living._

* * *

 _ **Ainsley Tisdayle, 24**_  
 _ **Victor of the 92nd Hunger Games**_  
May 24th

* * *

 _Huffing and panting, my feet haphazardly slosh through the water of this sewer system that was our arena. The screams of agony other tributes echo off the walls, only for roars to silence them. I reach a junction, zipping left only for my heart to pang as I'm greeted with a dead end wall of brick. I barely get to turn around as a muttated rat descends on me. It's yellowed, jagged teeth tearing into my shoulder while it launches me forward, sending me wallowing into the water. Staggering to my knees, I'm face to face with yet another snarling rat. Shrieking, I brace myself as the mutt prepares to devour me whole, descending my vision into darkness._

 _"You failed me." A younger boy drones while appearing through a veil of mist. His throat was slit open and continued to gush blood._

 _"I'm sorry Micah…I was too young, I –"_

 _Beside him stands Jai Matisse of the Ninety-fifth Games. A knife stuck in his chest. "You failed me."_

 _Soon after, dozens of my charges appear. All of them chant the same thing. "You failed me! You failed me! You failed me!"_

 _"It couldn't be helped!" I shriek, meeting all their blank stares. I try to exit somewhere, anywhere, only to be surrounded by Twelve's fallen._

 _"No…She failed us." Lumina Reiss angrily adds, shoving through the crowd. Her left leg has a bone jutting out of it and her midsection bleeds. "You utter waste of a Victor! Twelve would be better off having none!"_

 _"You're pathetic!"_

 _"Kill yourself!"_

 _Like cornered prey, I curl into a ball and I shield my ears in a pathetic attempt to block out their jeering. But it seeps through regardless._

 _"No, no, no, no, no…"_

…

" _Ainsely,_ wake up this instant!" a voice pleads. They're touching me now, gripping my hands and tugging me forward. I deserve their abuse, but I don't want it.

"No, no, no, _please_ no!" I cry wearily, attempting to break free.

I feel something hard strike my cheek. "You're _dreaming_ Ainsely," My vision flashes white following another strike. "Snap out of it!"

The sewers and the enveloping darkness were no longer. Drenched in sweat, I frantically scan around to realize I'm sprawled out on my mess of a bed. Inches away kneels Francine Nguyen, her arms folded and her face filled with apparent concern. Instead of her usual extravagant attire, she was dressed in a nightgown.

"…Wha- what are you doing here?" I pant, easing upward in a failed attempt to stem my throbbing chest.

"The train came early yesterday. I messaged you but got no answer." Francine murmurs in reply. "So I used my spare key to come in. I thought perhaps you could use the help in getting ready for today…"

I let out a dry heave, feeling bile rising up my throat. Right… _today_. It all comes together now. This time of year bar the tours are the only time my terrors amplify.

"It was only just a dream." Francine affirms. "Everything is okay, no need to be alarmed."

I shake my head, letting out another breath to stave away my nausea, to no avail. My dreams may be outlandish, but the overall theme is true. I'm in charge of a Snowforsaken district. No matter what our people will be disregarded, leaving _two more_ people I have to shepherd off to their deaths without a chance in hell.

Hanging my head over the side of my bed, I throw up the little content of my stomach into the trashcan.

…

After getting cleaned up and fitted into an outfit, Francine drags me to the kitchen to ensure I eat. She calls a team of avoxes from the train. Two prepared us breakfast while another two tended to my grooming. All that's left now is the ceremony itself.

"Okay, so Twelve is in a little bit of a _'dry-spell'_..." Francine notes, rifling through her purse. "So _what_ , even the _careers_ have a few slow years every now and then?"

"Have the upper districts constantly reaped _condemned_ rebel children for the past _twenty-five_ years?"

Francine frowns. "I suppose that is true..."

"It's true _full-stop._ " I press. "This is Twelve we're talking about – Panem's black sheep. And judging from our luck it'll take another _forty years_ until we have another Victor – someone _viable_ unlike me...I _doubt it_."

"Okay, so your victory wasn't as… _'stellar'_ as some of the other Victors Panem has come to know. But if you think about it, that was just a _phase_!"

If looks could kill, Francine's head would've exploded from the glare I launch her way.

"I don't mean like your showcase of bravery and ingenuity was nothing of note! No, no!" She affirms. Noticing her 'delivery' was off she makes a show of raising her hands in surrender. "Becoming a better mentor takes _time_ Ainsely. The Games require a myriad of traits to see success – which varies from tribute to tribute! All we can do is hope for the _best_. If not, there's always next time!"

Not really in the mood to argue, I simply nod my head. For five years Francine carries the same bubbly optimism staple of many escorts.

"Good, now don't fret. Maybe this year will be genuinely different?" Smiling, she pulls out a blue bottle of what appears to be pills. "Ah, here they are. Come, when was the last time you took your medicine? These should take those Reaping Day jitters away!"

...

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Ainsely Tisdayle, Victor of the Ninety-Second Hunger Games accompanied by our Capitol escort Francine Nguyen!"

Boxed in by a squad of Peacekeepers, we're escorted from the limousine and up the aisle towards the stage. No one claps of course, I can't blame them. Instead as I glance to my left and right, all I receive are pitying stares – _judging_ stares. It all but confirms the reason why I confine myself to Victor's Village. _None_ of these people could walk five feet in my shoes.

"Thank you, Mayor Simms. You all should be proud to have such a kind gentleman as your mayor!" Francine gushes, her gingham dress swishing as she pivots toward the audience. "On behalf of the Capitol I would like to welcome you all to the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games and the Fourth Quarter Quell at that! To usher in a new era, we've even made a new film! Let's watch!"

The typical film they show every year is the same as usual, besides President DeWynter voicing it over and an extra mentioning on the suppression of the Second Rebellion. Even looking out into the vast crowd – filled with exiled dissidents and ex-rebels – you could see their looks of disdain as they shook their heads or looked anywhere but to their front where the holoscreen was located.

"What an enjoyable piece that was." Francine twitters. "History is an _exciting_ thing. Maybe District Twelve will play a special part in it once again!" she moves toward the bowl on her left now, the entirety of the square eyeing her as if she were jugging fine glassware. "Let's start with the men this time around, shall we?"

Swirling the slips around for a good couple of seconds, she quickly rips out a chit with an audible _swoop._

"Our male tribute for the One Hundredth Hunger Games will be... Kaviraya Parathi!" Francine announces. The audible sighs that flow throughout the male half of the square was as audible as wind blowing by. From the late twenties, early thirties section slowly emerges a brown-skinned man. Judging by the whispering from the Mayor and other officials around me and his well-to-do appearance of a button-up shirt, ironed pants and tweed trousers, he was a person of importance.

A person of importance that _I_ am ultimately responsible for most certainly _losing._

"What a handsome gentleman." Francine coos, planting a manicured hand on his shoulder, "And a very _stoic_ one too."

Unless someone was looking very closely, they would think so too. But he _wasn't_. His eye twitched as he marched up the steps. His fists currently remain clenched to his sides and his stance is rigid. I barely notice the speck of red that he licks from the side of his mouth. With one final pat on the shoulder, Francine sashays toward the bowl on the right.

"And now for the female tribu-"

"I volunteer as tribute!" announces a firm voice.

Glancing toward the audience, Francine casually tosses the chit of paper out of her manicured hand back into the bowl, crossing her arms with a huff. " _Well_ , _someone_ is eager. I didn't even get to call out a name yet!"

All eyes glance toward the nineteens as a girl begins to make her way out of the aisle. Gasps ring out as the screens blow her image up for everyone to see. With her extremely pale features, I could see why many would recognize her. Whereas the other girls wore modest dresses, she wore a _miner's uniform._ I couldn't help but frown as the Peacekeepers escort her toward the stairs.

Part of me yearns for two ex-rebels instead. At least then their downfall lies at _their_ feet more than mine.

"It's Reaping Day, aren't the mines _closed_ for the Holidays?" Francine frets while cocking her hip to the side, eyeing the girl as she began up the steps and onto the stage proper. "Does the young miner have a _name_ at least...?"

As Francine gestures for her to use the microphone, the girl says nothing. Her hands are clasped behind her back and her gaze steely. Another girl who could pass for her twin sibling bobs to the left and right in an attempt to gain her attention, but the mystery girl makes no attempt to respond.

" _Ah_ , I see you're a mysterious and silent type!" Francine remarks with a snap of a finger and a smirk to boot. "You Twelver's always seem to intrigue us when we least expect it!"

Stepping backward, she gestures toward the selected tributes.

"District Twelve, your tributes for this year's Hunger Games – Kaviraya Parathi and this young lady which I'm sure the press are scrambling to find out who she is!"

There was a weak smattering of applause, as everyone was still trying to make sense of the girl's volunteering. The cameras pick up on Mr. Dunning – a prominent general store owner – as he shakes his head, a small smirk on his face as he converses with a fellow attendee. They also pick up along the way a blond-haired man with eyeglasses who attempts to fight away tears. Yet he still wears a smile on his face like parents of Careers would in _their_ reaping ceremonies.

I shake my head, easing upward in an attempt to relieve the knots from my stomach. She's no Career, she _couldn't_ be. Not in Twelve – home of Panem's undesirables.

"Shake hands you two." Francine yearns, pulling them in to do just that. " _Great_! What an _interesting_ reaping this was! I don't know about you guys but I certainly wonder about what's to come?!"

"Nothing good, nothing good..." I murmur, watching as they Peacekeepers escort them into the building proper. What was she getting at? Where other mentors would probably jump for joy seeing a tribute like her, my brain throbs as it attempts to decipher the _'why'_ of it all.

Whatever it was, it couldn't mean anything positive for Twelve.


	19. Train Rides - Evening

**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**  
 _ **Train Rides – Evening**_

* * *

 ** _Veradisia "Vera" Annora Smith, 19_**  
 ** _District 12 Female_**

Well that went _surprisingly_ _well_.

Even though I've wracked my brain about this very moment for the better part of a _year,_ giving me plenty of time to _'prep',_ my body remains wrought with nervous energy. My hands are clammy and my heart beats a mile a second. Although judging from the crowd who continues to gawk at me as if I had a muttated face, my inner feelings haven't externalized themselves. At least it's over with.

After Francine Nguyen prompted my partner and I to shake hands, I let out a lengthy exhale as a squad of Peacekeepers box the two of us in and begin marching us up the steps and into the Justice Building proper. The audience wasn't the only group of people shocked by my display. As we make our way up the steps, Twelve's politicians also watch me, some with confusion and many with scorn. I pay their reactions no mind, as many of them are complicit and content with Twelve's current situation.

"What're you trying to get at girl, volunteering like that?" berates a Peacekeeper as he jostles my shoulder. We're out of view of the cameras now, walking across the central rotunda hall. At the second floor stair landing, my partner is marched one way while I'm marched elsewhere.

"Lay off, Mendoza." Another Peacekeeper reprimands, although the tone in her voice displays anything but genuine care for my well being. "Someone thinks they're a _hero_ , is all."

" _Yeah right_ ," Another Peacekeeper snorts. "Two-hundred PDs say she's blown _sky high_ when the pedestals rise."

A guffaw rings out from 'Mendoza'. "That's _easy money_ right there."

Bunching my fist and holding my tongue, I pay them no mind as they snigger among themselves. If I were anyone else, I would've lashed out at these idiots. But instead, I only smile to myself while they continue to escort me to our location. Their empty jeers only serve as fuel towards seeing my goal through. That, and their faces once I prove them wrong.

Thankfully, I'm rid of them soon enough as they leave me in a parlor of sorts – a fancy wood-paneled room with two sofas facing one another. In the middle was a polished oak table with a pitcher of water, cups and of course, a box of tissues.

Within minutes of settling down, I have audience with a plethora of people which spanned half an hour or so. Mr. Dunning, Mrs. Saunders, my co-workers, teachers, so on and so forth come to say their goodbyes. Some wish me a tentative Godspeed, many cry, many sit and gawk at me as they did outside and _many_ called into question my mental stability. However, _all_ of them shared the same question by the end of their allotted time.

 _"Why?"_

Aspen was one of them, asking that very same question as soon as he barged into the parlor with enough force to make me jump upward in shock.

" _Why_ , why _the hell_ did you do that for!?" he demands. He stomps straight over and hovers just inches away from me, jutting his finger toward me as if I were caught red-handed. "See, I _knew_ you were up something...I _knew it!_ "

"Hello to _you_ _too_ , Aspen." I trill in reply, greeting him with a weak smile. Aspen wasn't having any of it apparently, shooting me an incredulous glare of sorts.

"C'mon, _enough_ of the _pussyfooting_ already," He replies tersely, waving his hand dismissively. "You've spent most of the year doing it. Don't you think I deserve to know _why_? It's the _least_ you could do..."

"What else is there to know more about?" I ask with a slight shrug. "Life has simply called me to a higher place."

He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief as he begins to pace the length of the room.

"Of all the things that could've brought you 'higher', a promotion in the mines, a government job – _hell_ , _those new colleges_ , you're _smart enough_ for it. You decide to _volunteer!_?"

His back turned towards me, I ease off the couch and approach him. I wrap my arms around his chest while planting my head against his back. _When was the last time I embraced him like this?_ I wonder. "How long did we date again?" I murmur against his back, hearing his heartbeat thump against my ear. It seems my touch was very welcome, as his body begins to slacken and he lets out a sigh.

"It would've been a year." He replies, tracing his hands over mine.

"I'm sorry I wasn't good to you as you were to me." I say. " _Honestly_ Aspen, you _were and are_ one of a kind – the sort of man girls _yearn_ for. I hope you find someone that'll make your heart soar like I did. Twelve is a small pond, but there's plenty of fish in it."

He doesn't reply, instead we spend what feels like eternity in this embrace.

"...Usually, volunteering means you're in it to win it, no?" he says, piping up after five minutes of silence. I don't answer him. Even if I did, the Peacekeeper barging in wouldn't give me ample time to do so. Chan enters now with Father coming in behind her. Turning Aspen around, I hold his glance for a second or two before reaching up and planting a light kiss on his cheek and lips.

"Keep your wits about you," I say, placing a hand on his shoulder and offering a stern nod. "You'll need them." Concluding that those were fine parting words, I choose to watch Aspen as he does me, our eyes not parting until he passes the door. Outside my vision was Chan, her tear-stricken eyes boring into my face as a shove is enough for me to focus back on her. Channery's cheeks were _blotchy_ , comparable to that of marble cheese. The white of her pale skin that we share only highlights the redness from her continued crying.

"Why Vera, _why!?"_ she sobs, choking back a sniffle. _"How could you do such a thing!?"_

I immediately embrace her. With how hard we were clutching one another, I couldn't decide who was pouring their love into this hug the most. "Please don't cry Chan...It upsets me when you do."

"But _why_!?" She croaks, another sob wracking her body. "I knew something was wrong...but I wasn't expecting _this."_

"I have an _opportunity_ Chan," I explain soothingly, extending a hand to caress her shoulder. "An opportunity to make _everyone_ proud, you'll see."

"I...I...What would we do without you if... _if_..." Channery attempts to level her tone, only for another round of sobs to wrack her body. Sighing, I hold my sister by the hand as I guide her down toward the couch. Our knees pointed toward one another, I clasp one hand over hers. Our eyes never deviate from each other.

"You know that I would _tear the stars out of the sky_ if it meant keeping you safe?"

Another sniffle emits from her as she reaches for a tissue. "You tell me that always."

"And you know that when I see to a task, I complete it without fail?" I continue.

This earns a half-nod. "Y-Yes..."

Smiling, I gently grip Channery's hands. "Then all I ask is that you _trust me_. Have faith, for there's _always_ a method to my madness."

She continues on sobbing for another minute while I console her as best I can before she lifts her head and looks at me once more. "I can't say I can wholeheartedly...but I'll _try_ , for you and father." She nods, shedding away one last tear. "It'll be _very_ difficult."

I smile, wrapping my hand around her arm. "That's _stellar_ , Chan. And that's _okay_. All I ask is that you _try_."

Channery steps toward the door, as Father now takes her place. It's his turn to be the rock, gently taking my hand and caressing it as he breathes out a sigh. "I should have volunteered with you." He says, quietly enough so that Channery, who stood near the entrance, couldn't hear.

I lay my head against his shoulder. "We've been here before, Father. What sense would that make? Chan would be _ruined_ if that happened."

" _Regardless_. If Ambrosia had a say in all this, I'd imagine she'd chew me out for allowing you to see this through – the mother in her, really. Although another part of me thinks she'd _commend_ you."

I manage a weak smile. "You _do_ always say I'm her carbon copy."

A solemn smile on his lips, he reaches into his shirt pocket and produces an ornate silver locket. Pressing it into my palm, I open it to reveal a photograph of father embracing my mother under a tree. Judging by her swollen stomach, she was about ready to pop with Channery and myself.

"Consider it a token of sorts." Father says. "She didn't know you two for long, but she always affirmed that you would go on to do impeccable things. She _wasn't wrong._ "

"Here's hoping I live up to her aspirations." I reply, gripping the token while looking up into Father's downcast eyes.

Father taps me on the shoulder. "Something tells me you _will_."

The Peacekeeper barging through the door is enough to startle all three of us. "It's time." He barks. They must've trained him good, as I can't fathom someone having next to nothing in terms of empathy. Beckoning Channery towards me, I quickly gather her and father into an embrace.

"Remember what I said Chan, trust me _, be strong."_ I say, planting a kiss on each of their cheeks. I hear his jackboots clacking against the hardwood, so I know the Peacekeeper is upon us. The Peacekeeper yanks them away. "I love you both more than the air we breathe!"

"I love you too!" Channery croaks.

"We love you as well, darling." Father says while he keeps an even pace with a more persistent Peacekeeper. "Go do what needs to be done, all eyes are on _you_!"

Father manages to get that all out before the Peacekeeper unceremoniously slams the door shut. Moments later the door opens, leaving me no time to ponder, and this time Francine Nguyen enters with a squad of Peacekeepers. Her black and white gingham dress, trendy big hair and white headband stands out from the armored soldiers that stand around her.

"Come along m'dear, we have some _deliberating_ to do!" she says. Her tone and expression reek of the typical cheeriness you would expect from a Capitol escort which is odd, as I was expecting apprehension and annoyance following my unorthodox volunteering.

I quirk an eyebrow. " _Already_?"

She nods so vigorously you'd think her head would pop off. " _Mhm_ , exciting isn't it?! But first, let us get to the car."

After fetching my partner, the Peacekeepers escort us to a garage where a limousine awaited us. I find this odd, because usually the escorting of the tributes to the train station was a far more public affair. Entering the car, we quickly find ourselves driving through the streets on our way to the train proper. Spectators on either side of the streets stand idly by as we make our way through. This wasn't District 1. There would be no cheering or marching bands. This was more akin to a funeral procession than jubilation.

"Now, forums and exit polls across the _PanemNet_ are _absolutely_ _jazzed_ about you and they don't even know your name!" Francine turns toward Kaviraya, offering him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Not that you _aren't_ viable as well, Kaviraya."

It's not like he cares either way, as he gazes out the limousine window listlessly. I can't blame him. Turning back towards Francine, I frown slightly. "They _still_ don't know?" There were plenty of avenues to get my name – records, people...

"Noperoonie! I've called in a complete blackout until we reach the Capitol proper. It's much better that way I _assure_ you."

"I suppose that makes sense." I reply wryly. The Capitol drools for any form of drama. If my supposed anonymity garners more favor with them, then so be it.

Francine goes on to prattle about how different things will be in the Capitol this time around. I manage to tune her out, watching the streets of Twelve go by until we reach the gates of our train station.

"Here we are, the beginning of our journey to the Capitol!" Francine announces. "Now _Veradisia_ \- what a _wonderful_ name by the way - I need you to channel that same gusto when you announced your intent to volunteer. Ignore the press, no matter how many cameras or questions are shoved into your face. Got it? I sense something big coming our way!"

 _I agree, Francine._ I nod. "I understand."

" _Good_. Now come on you two, let's show the nation that Twelve has some viability this year!"

I recline in my seat, watching as the chauffer approaches my side of the door. This ordeal was far from over, but I take joy in the fact that everything is so far, so good. That's one step down - volunteering. Now, I move onto the next stage. It only gets difficult from here, but I welcome challenge wholeheartedly.

With a sharp breath, I shimmy my way out of the car and into the flashing lights.

* * *

 **Ricardo Marcenas, 59  
Snow Island Male**

"I _knew_ it'd come to this!" I fume, my feet pounding the hardwood floor as I pace back and forth. "Those _cabrónes..._ after all we've done for this country – _all I've done_ – they toss me to the wayside! If they had the _guts_ they could've busted down my door, drag me to a square and kill me on the spot. But _no_ , they do _this_ instead...figures."

As I do this, Papa and Mamá watch me silently from the couch. Papa - usually playful and snarky – is now downcast as he consoles my weeping mother who continues to howl to God above why her dear son was being taken from her.

It _wasn't_ God Mamá, but _man_ in the form of the _wicked Capitol_ that took your son away.

"Don't cry Mamá," I soothe, bending down to plant a kiss on her forehead. "If anyone you should ask or curse, it'd be the _Capitol_."

That prompts a scoff to emit from Sofia, who stands off to the side closest to the door. I pay her no mind, however.

"...I'm sorry mijo." Papa says, seemingly trying his hardest to _not_ meet my eyes. "Perhaps I was a little too impressionable way back when. I never once thought it would lead to _this_ however."

I gently clap him on the back. "Impressionable for all the right reasons, Papa. You have absolutely _nothing_ to be sorry about."

When the Second Rebellion kicked off, Papa and I both were reluctant to engage in what the Capitol was ordering us to do. We swore an oath to defend Panem's waters and explore lands long forgotten, not kill our fellow countrymen over an _asinine_ cause such as the Hunger Games.

Papa isn't having it, shrugging my hand off his shoulder. "Of course I have something to be sorry about! They're going to _kill_ my boy!" he exclaims, his voice cracking.

"Ricardo, mi amore, what will you do!?" cries Mamá, glancing at me with her makeup-smudged face.

Sighing, I shrug. The thought of certain death settles in even more. "I'll have to go through the motions until the situation allows me differently." I say. Death loomed, yes, but I have ample time to make my case, wreak havoc until the very end. They weren't dealing with a helpless child or a mindless Career. I _won't_ make it easy for them.

We watch as a Peacekeeper opens the door and stands idly by. We all know what that represents. As Mamá and Papa rise to their feet, Sofia is the first to make her exit. I'm quick to stop her, grabbing her by the shoulder. Like a hand to a stove she immediately retracts her arm, regarding me as if I were a _beggar_ not her flesh and blood.

" _What?"_ she bites, her blue eyes trembling with anger and contempt.

""What" _what_ – no goodbye or final words for your own brother?" I say, my voice containing the same edge.

"The actions that _you_ take from here on out, _I_ will have to atone for." She replies, jabbing a finger into my chest as she does the same to herself. "I hope you know this."

"I will not apologize for what I think to be just. Hopefully after this ordeal is through you'll find my ideals to be in the right." I say. She stills serves in the Navy, she's still loyal to the Capitol. I doubt they retaliate any further than my reaping.

"I _severely_ doubt that." She retorts back.

"We'll see." I reply, nodding off toward our parents. "If not for me, then do it for _them_ – _take care_ of Mamá and Papa."

Sofia's eyes wander before focusing squarely on me. The edge subsides somewhat, her features softening by an inch. " _Fine_."

"You may not feel the same, but I love you." I say, stepping forward as I embrace her. "This will never change."

Stiff as a board, her apprehension is as clear as day. I couldn't help but frown. Of all things, they took my _baby sister_ too. Sofia immediately turns to escort our weeping mother out as Papa hobbles to a stop before me. Gone was the sadness in his eyes, replaced with that glint of determination I often saw during his navy years.

"Ricardo mijo, come here." Papa beckons. "Bow down and close your eyes until I say open."

Obeying, I step toward him and crane my head downward. I feel him place something around my neck - a necklace as a token perhaps?

"Alright, now straighten up and open your eyes."

Peering downward, it appears I was right. A bronze, five-pointed star with wreathes hung around my neck supported by a navy blue lanyard and a cluster of white stars at its base. I couldn't help but look at Papa and crack a smile.

"All these years you pestered me about this thing – _"Papa can I see the medal?",_ _"Papa can I have it when you don't want it anymore?"_ Well, here you go mijo. A medal of honor fit for an _honorable_ man. Let it serve as a reminder."

My smirk not leaving my face, I caress the ancient medal in my hand. What better way to showcase my principles. " _Thank you_ , Papa...Te amo." I say, embracing him for the final time.

"Te amo, mijo." Papa replies while returning my gesture in earnest. "Te amo _mucho_."

The Peacekeeper is on us instantly, unceremoniously yanking Papa out of my grasp and whisking him through the oak door with a resonating slam, leaving me alone to fester in my hatred.

...

"That was quite the show - _muy emocionante_!" Melanie chirps while escorting us through the hallway of the hoverplane that takes us to the Capitol. "Ricardo and his hardened persona...Donna and her...outburst – _which I'm still reeling over_ – have lot of people are buzzing about you two already, which is _absolutely great_!"

As our airheaded escort chirps on and on, I tune her out, instead focusing on the dining room. It was the definition of wasteful. There was no other word to describe it. A twelve-seat dining table with lounge chairs dominated the middle of the room with a holovision mounted into a wall. To top it all off, various types of food, _too much_ for the passengers on this flight that I could count on my _hand_ , littered the table.

"Are you two even _listening_!?" Melanie squawks. While I try my hardest to refrain from _flipping_ the table entirely, Donna's already piling a bowl.

"Look at all this...it's _pathetic_. This could fill the bellies of half an orphanage." I denounce, waving a dismissive hand toward the table and then the room at large. "I know some children on the _calle_ who'd _love_ to stuff their faces with quality food like this, instead of _crowding_ around windows in the tourist sector." I turn toward her now, glaring daggers. "How do you _live_ with yourselves?"

Melanie seems taken aback. I doubt her pea-brained Capitol mind could come up with a plausible defence. " _Well_...I'm sure those children when they get _older_ and become productive citizens they'll be able to afford food such as this!"

"That's if they aren't _culled off yet_." I snipe.

An expression of shock lights up on her face. "Let me get your mentors!" She says, casting me a weary glance as she zips out of the room.

"That's some lip you have on you." Donna quips. " _Careful_ , mind that they don't shut you up _before_ the pedestals rise."

"If you ask me, it's too late for carefulness." I say turning toward my partner. "Are you okay, Donna? I couldn't help but notice you and your mother as we left...I'm sorry."

Even though the official visitation had ended, the elder lady continued to beg and plead to see her daughter – as if she didn't know that she selected as tribute.

Donna glances up from her plate. "Please it's _Ludra_ and no, I'm not doing well at all." She sighs, stuffing a piece of fruit into her mouth. "I had my friends look after her while I'm gone...if the worst happens, then it's the convalescent home for her. Given how she can be sometimes, I don't think she'll do well without me."

"Again, Ludra, I apologize."

"Thanks but apologies won't help much here." Ludra replies. "If they're gonna offer me the five-star treatment then I might as well take advantage."

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it..." I ponder, glancing towards a chair closest to me. Swallowing my pride, I sit and take up a plate even though it annoys me to do so.

The dining room entrance slides open with a hiss as Melanie returns.

"Tributes, here are your _mentors_ – Rafaela Novia and Panem's beloved duo Joyceta Rodriguez and Francisco Noriega!"

I could only watch with part shock, part disgust as the three children entered the room. It's hard to believe that between the three of them, they had killed a dozen other children to stand here today. I focus my glance toward Rafaela, who takes a seat beside Ludra. I've heard many unfortunate things about her, such as her dalliances in organized crime, drugs and murder even after her father, El Gallo Novia, was killed years ago. I suppose the apple doesn't far fall from the tree.

"There's no duo here, not anymore." Joyceta glowers, casting a glare toward her male co-victor. "I hear he goes by _'Panem's new Playboy'_ now."

Massaging her temples, Rafaela sighs. "Joyceta..."

" _You've_ made it that way!" Francisco bites back. "I _keep saying_ I can explain but-"

"Take your ' _explanation'_ and _stow it_!"Joyceta retorts, eyes trembling. "After all we've been through...I can't _believe_ you. And the _worst_ thing is that you _continue on_ anyway!"

Francisco launches his hands into the air. They make an audible sound as they collide against the table once more. "If you won't hear me out then why the hell not?!"

" _Francisco, Joyceta_!" Melanie snaps, gesturing toward Ludra and myself. "The _tributes_...?"

It's as if the rest of us weren't present, as the two of them exchange lengthy and vexed stares with one another as the room falls silent. Rafaela casually retrieves a bottle of pills from her purse and plops one into a glass of water, as if this were a common occurrence.

"I can't do this right now..." Joyceta finally mumbles with a scoff, pivoting as she begins to leave the room. "I should've stayed back on the island."

Making a concerned noise with her mouth, Melanie zips after her as fast as her heels can carry. "Joyceta, come back!"

Rolling my eyes, I simply shake my head. They're not even eighteen yet they're filled with such anger. "That's quite sad."

Francisco turns to me, a nasty scowl on his face. " _What?"_

" _I said_ that's quite sad and that I feel sorry for you three." I say, glancing at Rafaela and back towards him. "You're orphans, correct? I guess I can't blame you for being sucked into this 'life'."

"Listen _anciano_ , you know _nothing_ about me or what I've been through, got it?!" he snaps. "Don't talk about _shit_ you don't know."

"I know enough to see that the Capitol is very exploitative of you and your friend. It's a shame to see." I continue, unperturbed by his show of anger. Am I wrong? All one has to do is read an article or watch holovision to watch the gossip that consumes them as a 'couple'. Still, the seventeen-year-old boy regards me as if I spoke to him in a foreign language.

"...And it looks like you're _mentorless_ now, not that you had any viability anyway. Sorry Raf –" sighing, Francisco reaches over and pours himself a drink before rising out of his seat and making his way towards the door. His glare doesn't leave me. "I know all about you... _Ricardo Marcenas_ , son of the _'cobarde del caribe'._ Hopefully they kill you early before you _fuck up_ Isla Nieve's standing with the Capitol beyond repair."

With that the teenager leaves without another word, prompting Rafaela murmur out a string of curses. As the Ninety-Fifth Victor and Ludra leer at me, all I do is recline in my seat with a shrug, activating the holovision in anticipation of the recaps. There's no use in being upset about the obvious.

I just hope that out of this bunch there will be a couple of tributes, also in the same predicament as I, who also see reason.

* * *

 _ **Thelian Caldron, 36**_  
 _ **District Six Male**_

This is _really_ happening.

Clinging to me, Zahira continues to weep as we sit in the train's observatory room. The skyscrapers and tenement buildings that defined District 6 were now replaced with forests and open plains under an orange-colored sky while we continued our 'journey' to the Capitol. Home was long gone and chances are neither of us will _ever_ see it again.

"Zahira _shh_... "I soothe, gently rubbing her shoulder. "I know it hurts, but we can't give up so soon."

We're _smarter_ than this, being overwhelmed with grief so much that we forfeit everything including our survival. I've watched too many games in which tributes never recovered from the initial reaping to know what happens.

Sniffling, my colleague accepts the tissue I offer as she dabs her eyes. "You know... my Luci is so tough for his age. I've never seen him cry as hard as I saw him cry today." She says. "With me gone, I'm not sure _how_ he'll end up."

"I understand your pain...I've never seen Neha and Tanav so distraught _ever."_ I reply. Apart from the day he was born, I've never seen him wail so hard let alone Neha who is as emotionally stable as they come.

... _Neha_...

A soft sigh escaping my lips, I ease backward into the sofa we sit on. We have a _baby_ due in a couple of months, and Neha will most likely have to shoulder that burden _alone._ That fact alone gnaws at me like a rat does wood.

Glancing up, Zahira gapes at me as her face morphs into one of shock. _"Oh Gods_ , I'm _so_ sorry Thelian." She comforts, "Here I am crying about my family yet your family only _just begun_."

I make a show of waving her off. "Don't be sorry, Zahira. Something tells me worrying about one's own self will be a valuable asset."

"Of course," She replies, adjusting her glasses and smoothing down her dress. Back to her professional demeanor, it's almost as if she hasn't spent the past little while in mourning. "If we ...well _I_ , want a better chance of staying alive, we need to keep a level head. Our families would want that."

I offer a nod in reply, turning toward the observation entrance as it slides open to reveal our escort Flo Shakespeare.

She offers a pleasant smile, contrasting with her dark brown skin. "I hope you two are hungry, because dinner is now being served!" she announces. "If you'd follow me, I'll show you to the dining room."

Zahira and I exchange curious looks. It'd be nice to have something other than finger foods. Silently we make our way through the train until we finally reach the dining car. Inside, all three of Six's living victors sat at the lavish table as Master of Ceremonies Marceline Devereaux debated with experts on the holovision.

"Tributes, meet your mentors Koller Ascort, Silvia Starr and Isabella Wilkinson – Victors of the Eightieth, Eighty-Sixth and Ninety-Ninth Games _respectively_. I imagine you two already know that though."

"Hey Thelian..." Koller says, leaving his seat and extending a hand towards me. "Long time no see. I wish the occasion were less...volatile."

I quickly return the gesture, firmly pumping his hand. In high school he was already a burnout. Once his name was called in HG 86, we all thought he was dead. He proved us wrong, outlasting everyone without a kill to his name. The Peacekeepers had to send a search party to find him. "Likewise, Koller."

I regard the two elder Victors. In all my years of watching them on television, Koller Ascort and Silvia Starr actually looked _good_ for once. Usually, like many of Six's past winners, they were stoned out of their minds on chems like morphine. When our eyes meet Isabella's, the nineteen year old sadly averts her eyes to her plate.

"Hey uh...Caldron," Silvia begins, sheepishly caressing her neck. "Thanks for the words out there today. If it weren't for you, Six would be in flames by now. That was pretty _choice_ of you."

I offer her a bashful shrug, waving her away. "Don't mention it Silvia. I was just trying to better our standing."

"And better our standing _you did_. Many in the Capitol are _jazzed_ about your words of unity today. As if Six wasn't already on the map thanks to Izzy here!" cheers Flo, taking a seat for herself before gesturing to the table at large. "Come come, have a seat! We have much to rap about. Grab a plate, dig in!"

She doesn't have tell us again. Taking a seat next to Izzy I offer the teenager a soft smile and a pat on the knee, something she immediately returns.

"Before we go any further, how are you two feeling?" Koller asks.

Zahira glances up from her meal. "How are we _feeling_?"

"Your training, are we all in this together or are one of you flying solo?" he continues, nodding over to Silvia. "Silvia tells me you two know each other...it tends to happen. If you guys want to spare yourself th-"

" _Together_." We reply in unison, confusing each other in the process. We settle on exchanging amicable nods.

" _Well_ , I'm glad were on the same page." Zahira smirks.

"Why wouldn't we be?" I smile back. "What are friends for? It'll be just like college."

Inwardly, I find myself cringing at that last statement. This is the Hunger Games, our years of friendship are about to come to a grinding halt. But looking at Zahira and her warm smile, she knows this. Why not? We're _district partners_. Aiding one another is to be expected and our history only serves as a _strength_ when the fighting begins.

"...Good." Koller says evenly. Around him, Izzy, Flo and Silvia exchange smiles of their own. "Makes things a _helluva_ lot easier. Now, let's decipher the competition."

With that being said, we silently dig into our meals, watching as Marceline and her guests begin to pick apart the tributes.

 _"And so, with the dust of today's events settling across the nation, myself alongside my panel of Hunger Games enthusiasts will eagerly begin picking apart each reaping based on reactions and preliminary info!"_ the Hunger Games Host says. We watch as the cameras transition to District One's rolling plains and pristine suburbia.

With full grown adults running around in what is sure to be a volatile Games, better to have Zahira by my side than no one at all. At least with her, I could sleep soundly without waking up to a knife in my chest.

* * *

 ** _Sarissa Levesque, 25_**  
 ** _District Two Female_**

" _Gee_ , everyone seems to be generating quite a lot of buzz this year..." Our escort Olivia frets.

Around the dining room table, we watch as various public opinion polls flash across the holovision screen. As per usual the Career Districts hold their own, but just barely. Everyone seems to have caught the eye of the Capitol in one way or the other – most noticeably, the outer district females.

"Of course the tributes will be the point of conversation." Replies Jasper, her voice tinged with annoyance. "It's not every day that adults are in the Games y'know..."

"It's not every day _two_ luxury executives and a _renowned author_ is tossed into the Games either." Olivia tuts back, making a show of presenting a news article about the District 8 female on her communicuff. "I'm _afraid_ they'll eat into the sponsorship market and you should be too! Although with a high-stakes Games such as this, it's to be expected..."

"There's no need to worry Miss Townsend." Jason assures. "At the end of the day, _experience_ is all that matters. _That_ and our tributes breaking away from the typical brutish norm that Two tributes posses."

As Jasper makes no attempt to hide her sneer and eye roll, Olivia nods in agreement. "That makes _ample_ sense Jason. Something tells me that these two have plenty of _'experience'."_ Smiling, the escort turns to Solomon and me. "Say...you two are awfully quiet, unlike tributes I've escorted before."

"There's not much to say." I reply. Folding my arms, I watch while the holovision showcases the beaches and traditional music of Snow Island before getting onto the reaping proper. Christos and I are day and night but I agree with his sentiment. When it comes to the Games, _experience_ outranks everything. I just want to bypass the pomp and step right into a tube. It appears my partner, 'Sol', feels the same way as his eyes immediately dart back to the holovision.

Sipping my drink I find myself holding my gaze towards him, pondering. I've seen him around the Academy many times. Since the selection ceremony, I've tried to get a pulse on the guy to no avail. Frowning, I watch as he gnaws at his lower lip and caresses his hands as if it were a nervous habit. I'm not sure whether I should care or not. Nonchalant, not strongly for this or for that...

"Well, when this recap is through, I wanna hear your guys' take on this years' roster." Jasper says.

So in silence, we watch as the reapings replay and Marceline gives her analysis with her panel of guests. In the point of view of a Capitolite such as Olivia, I can see why captivation with the lower districts is higher this year. From Isla Nieve to District 12, not one tribute in my mind was wholly forgettable, which is commonplace in any other given roster.

"Let's start with what we _know_ – this year's potential Career pack." Jasper asks. "Your opinions?"

"It'll be a lot smaller that's for sure." Sol snorts. "Snow Island is a _bust_ , with some sort of rebel by the looks of it and a _bus driver_ being their tributes. Not exactly Career material. The District One female was reaped as well, so I put her on shaky ground alongside Four's female."

"That's right. They may have had experience, but the years have withered said skills away." Jason turns to me now, an inquisitive expression on his face. "What say you, Miss Levesque?"

I shrug. "That means this year the pack will be much more _lithe and efficient,_ unlike previous packs like in HG 95."

"Don't you think that a potential shortage of Career-level tributes will hinder you?"

Again, I simply shrug. "As long as the few that are with us can hold their own, no, I can care less."

Jason frowns, turning to Solomon now. "Sol? Will this be a handicap?"

"Not really." He replies, reclining in his seat. "The twist pretty much ensured that the Career Districts would be at a slight 'disadvantage'. I'll have to adapt as we go. No use fretting."

"Do you have any potential targets in mind?" asks Jasper with a quirked brow. "Plenty of volunteers this year...Even if they weren't reaped, they sure put on a show worthy of attention."

I nod. That was true. The Nine male, a prisoner, wanted a taste of freedom. Interesting. Eleven's female volunteered for a wheelchair-ridden young girl. We had authors, businessmen and women, but none of them stood out to me like...

"The Snow Island male." I respond immediately, nodding towards the holovision as Jasper played back Snow Island's reaping. Tall and imposing with scars that mangled his lower jaw, I watch as his name is called and he stomps toward the stage. Not with the cockiness of a Career, but the anger of a man scorned. _Marcenas_ , _Marcenas, Marcenas_...I recall the name during history classes pertaining to the War. If what I've been taught is true, then he'll be a worthy opponent for sure.

 _"Interesting choice of attire on Mr. Marcenas' part."_ A Panelist comments, caressing his chin as the cameras compare and contrast Ricardo's uniform with an old photo. _"Sources say that he wears the dress uniform of the old United States Navy. It really makes him pop!"_

 _"Is he 'popping' for good reasons or bad? Judging by that mean scowl on his mug, something tells me the latter_." Marceline says. Shrugging towards the camera she flashes a smile. _"We'll just have to see!"_

"The District Twelve female was noteworthy as well." Comments Sol. Jasper, Olivia and Jason quickly nod, as the former rewinds to Twelve's reaping. "What's with them and Quells? It seems like that's the only time they shine."

Unlike Ricardo, who outwardly shows his disdain, the Twelve girl is a blank slate as she strides out of her part of the aisle and simply declares her volunteering without another word. Her miner's uniform was as bold as Ricardo's display, if one had a careful eye to see it that way. That and her extremely pale skin makes her stick out like a sore thumb.

 _"...Marcy...?"_ A Panelist urgently murmurs. " _I'm getting flashbacks to a certain time in history in which a certain someone rocked the boat..."_

Marceline nods in agreement. " _Me too Plato...me too, I'm sure all of Panem are musing the same thing. She's topping the popularity polls and we don't even know her name! Our source at the Ministry of Districts' Affairs will get back to us shortly on that. Regardless, we'll be keeping our eye out for you, mystery girl!"_

Jasper rewinds the footage, pausing on the stoic Twelve female. "Any thoughts on the _she-who-shall-not-be-named_ wannabe?"

"She's no good." I respond immediately, waving toward the holovision dismissively. "Twelve is a hotbed of rebel scum. I don't trust her to just lie down and _die_ like a typical Twelve."

"Is she a _threat_ in your eyes?" asks Jason. His expression reeks of supposed annoyance at my confidence. Jasper and Olivia watch on with curiosity while Sol, the enigma, continues to flip through the recaps passively as if he were here alone.

"None of them are a ' _threat'_." I reply, returning the annoyed tone tenfold. "A challenge I'll enjoy tackling, sure, but a _threat_ , no way."

Sure, they all had something interesting going on about them...a prisoner, a supposed author...that's all fine and dandy. We'll see how their backgrounds will translate into the arena. Something tells me that most of them lack transferable skills.

"Such confidence!" trills Olivia. "I like her. Then again, I enjoy _all_ of Two's tributes."

Jason frowns, narrowing his steely gaze toward me as I lob a strawberry into my mouth. "I'd caution you on your overconfidence. Just like Cadmus last year, even the strongest of tributes can fall to the unassuming underdog."

Casting him a glare that could melt a girder, I quickly divert my attention to the holovision. Who in the hell does he think he is? Like many cadets and faculty alike back at the Academy, many of us wonder where Christos gets at. It's almost as if he roots for anyone _but_ Two.

Jasper rightly scoffs, rolling her eyes at his pessimism. "What are you, a _Three_? We're _Twos_ , confidence is in our _blood_." I can't help but smirk as my closest friend wraps an arm around my shoulder. "You don't worry about Rissa, she's all squared away. Isn't that right?"

I repeat her gesture in kind. Jaspy knows more than that outlier born in a career's body. She knows my struggles, my triumphs to get where I am now. "Why thank you Jasper and _of course_ , I'm all settled here."

Just a few more days of fluff to go.

* * *

 **Pearlana Singh, 36  
** **Head Gamemaker**

"Those were some _boss_ reapings. Am I right or am I right!?"

Pearl watched from behind the stage as Marceline warmed up the crowd for her interview As per usual, the crowd of Capitolites lucky enough to grab a seat at Marceline's Reaping Day Special roared with raucous applause. Standing idly by just out of an earshot from the main stage, even Pearl's ears popped at the sudden uptick in volume.

"... _Gee_. If you guys are _this_ jazzed _so_ early, then I wonder how jazzed you'll be when the interviews roll around!?" Marceline said as she playfully rubbed her ears. "In that case, I'll be sure to pack some earplugs!"

The crowd responded with soft laughter. The realization that Pearl will soon be out there prompted her stomach to bind itself in anxiety. Why couldn't she have gotten Melchior or someone to do this...?

"I have one last surprise for you all today." Marceline said as she rose from her desk. "As most diehard Hunger Games junkies know, usually our intrepid Gamemakers have already dropped a tidbit or two pertaining to the arena by now, but alas...no dice!" the crowd booed playfully at this. Marceline nodded along with a fake pout on her lips. That mock sadness is instantly turned upside down. "Hey, it's the Fourth Quarter Quell, I wouldn't expect anything less! But as I said before, I have someone here to quench your thirst. Here to give some insight on this year's arena, the maestro herself, Pearlana Singh!"

With a smile pasted on her face, Pearl strode on stage. She felt robotic as she pumped Marceline's hand, letting the Master of Ceremonies guide her to the sofa beside her desk. Where her husband's side of the family – the DeWynters – commanded confidence, she lacked it. She was definitely more of a 'behind the scenes' person, never getting used to the surge of attention once she took the position over back in HG 95.

"As you can see by the applause, we really dig you over here." Marceline said as she patted Pearl's hand.

"So I've heard." Pearl quipped back with a smirk. The applause of the crowd quickly died down into polite and soft laughter.

"So...Pearlana," Marceline began, "How are you doing? I imagine it's been quite a year for you, preparing for this quell and all."

"I'm doing well and yes, we've been working overtime to ensure that this Quarter Quell goes down in history as one of the greats."

"With how _hush hush_ you eggheads have been, I'd imagine it will be!" Marceline exclaimed over the cheers of the crowd. "How about the head honcho - the president, you _are_ her sister-in-law after all. Could you tell us her reaction, if any?"

"Viondra is the type of person who prefers surprise." Pearl replied. "I'm sure she'll be quite pleased with this year's design."

"Well, for the past four years, your designs have been _mint_! As we know, head gamemaker isn't the most stable of gigs, so obviously you're doing something right."

"Thank you, but to be fair Marcy, those arenas happen to be _child's play_ compared to this year's arena."

"I see..." Marceline pondered, eying the audience as they mused among themselves with intrigue. "What about it then? Without spoiling it outright, tell us about this years' arena. We're just absolutely _dying_ to know."

Pearl smirked. Now _that_ was a question she wanted to hear. "Since taking up the mantle four years ago, the arenas I facilitated as I said were only a teaser to what I consider my _peak_ potential. This arena without a doubt is my _magnum opus._ 'Change' is the anthem of the year."

"Well, it is a whole new century..." Marceline smirked as the crowd applauded wildly.

Pearl shook her head. They don't quite get it, but they _will_ shortly. "And not just this year, Marceline, but the following years are sure to usher in a new era of Hunger Games no one has ever seen."

* * *

 ** _Note from Tyler:_**

I'm very very very very very very very very very very very very sorry, guys.

I have good reason for my absence though! I joined the Army. Yep, your boy is a weekend warrior. So I've been doing that for a month. And Chances are I might be called up for further training.

I'm still invested in this story! Don't worry, its just I never had the time to really sit down and write. As I said, I'm still thinking and planning ahead. Now that I'm *firmly* planted again, things should be good...

I hope your summers are going well though. I imagine you guys aren't sitting around 247 so I'm not angering too many of you. To be fair, I did 'up and leave' in regards to my prequel SYOT, but I came back and finished it!

...Not saying that I would do the same, but it just goes to show that I'll always come back!

With that "Generic" format of "All 12 district intros" it gives me a lot more room to be "Liberal" in terms of "Points of view". So in future chapters besides the trains/arrivals...I'm not sure how many would be featured, although I'm planning on cutting down so I can fit people in one more time.

Oh oh also! My Chariots and Interviews and Scores are different, however prolonged, so I believe everyone will be satisfied in terms of spotlight. If you were to go back and look at my prequel scores and interviews, Imagine those in this story, but improved and well..prolonged.

Also, I have so many reviews to catchup to as well, apologies to you if I havent in a while...Which is only 2 people I believe.

I hope you guys enjoy your weekend.


	20. Train Rides - Arrivals

Metamorphosis: **The 100th Hunger Games**  
 **Trains Part Two: Arrivals**

* * *

 **Gideon Montresor, 60**  
 **Prime Minister of Panem**

* * *

"Where to next, Prime Minister?"

"The Presidential Mansion," Gideon answered as he glanced into the driver's cabin, meeting the Capitol Guardsman's eyes. "Step on it."

The Guardsman nodded. "Right away sir."

The limousine lurched as it left the cul-de-sac of the National Defense Headquarters. Thankfully the complex wasn't too far of a journey to the Mansion. Diligent with the various tasks given to him by the President, Gideon valued his free time just as much. He was more than happy to leave the upkeep of the expansive web that was Panem's National Government up to its respective ministers of state for a week while he caught a breather.

Although something told him he would be back in a conference room soon enough...The office of prime minister turned out not to be an empty platitude. These past few months since taking the premiership he's been _busy_ , busier than he ever was since being chief of staff to President DeWynter and her predecessors. Tasks such as settling in parliamentarians from across Panem following the elections, chairing cabinet meetings in DeWynter's stead, attempting to squash rebellions before a Quell just to name a few.

With a heartfelt sigh, Gideon scrolled through the minutes of the national security meeting on his communicuff. There have been hundreds of casualties within the past week, peaking within the last forty-eight hours due to Reaping Day. Mass demonstrations, rumblings of amalgamated rebel cells...if the wrong advice on how to facilitate the situation is given to her and she _follows though..._

Antonia Lockpetal, President DeWynter's Principal Secretary, frowned at Gideon. "You're nervous about what they said?" she inquired.

"The generals are cocky," He replied, his browline glasses removed as he massaged his temples. Gideon didn't blame them. The Peacekeeping Forces have seen rapid change during this twenty-five year lull. _Snow_...he was one of the driving forces behind that change. However there's much more at stake than _bruised egos_. "With so many war pigs at her ear, it's difficult for a level head to stay afloat."

Antonia shook her head as the younger woman placed a gentle hand on his. "At least we're here – _you're_ here. If you weren't, Panem would've died off long time ago."

Gideon smirked. He wasn't like many of Panem's officials, preferring to lie back while the younger generation sought glory by any means. As long as he held this office, however, he'll be sure to use that accolade to its fullest extent.

...

At least he was the one giving the briefing this time.

"Are you sure you don't want anything?" Viondra inquired in her deep and husky drawl as she gestured to the various foods and beverages on the table beside her. She then gestured to her slightly swollen stomach. "I know I eat for _two_ and all, but I'm willing to share."

Gideon shook his head while he turned to Antonia who silently shook her head and then back to President DeWynter. "I'm fine, thank you." He said as one of the President's muttated hyena companions, Mars, let out a woop as he sniffed at his leg. He couldn't help but be tensed, regardless of the mutts being around for years by their owner's side. Being a gift from the African leader, Gideon always teased the president on not owning a pair of standard dogs like everyone else.

"How are our guests doing?" the President inquired. "Hosting foreigners in Panem doesn't happen every day."

"The dignitaries have arrived safe and sound, your Excellency." Gideon replied. "Minister Belliard is hosting them as we speak."

Humming in acknowledgment, the young President read over the minutes of the briefing whilst she mindlessly petted Juniper, the other hyena. While he waited, the Prime Minister took in his environment. Being on the South Portico of the Presidential Mansion, it was one of the rare times President DeWynter wasn't in a formal environment and one of the rare times she took the advice of those around her to lessen her duties for the health of her child. Her eldest daughter, five year old Matilda, played with relatives on the South Lawn as Guardsmen and women kept a watchful eye.

"I take it that this is the advice of the Headpeacekeeper Council and other officials?" Viondra finally asked as she took off her eyeglasses and glanced upward to meet their eyes.

Gideon nodded. "Yes it is."

"And _your_ advice?" she smirked. Gideon knew well that President DeWynter knew he was a dissenter regarding most opinions other advisors sent her way.

"Going to LERTCON 3 would only exasperate the nation's fragile social condition at this time." Gideon began, almost too quickly. "Our team recommends remaining at LERTCON 2 while increasing the scope of our security services..."

"Human intelligence, increased patrols in problem districts, roadblocks, etcetera." Antonia added.

Viondra frowned. "I'm more of a person who prefers more... _overt_ expressions. What better way of deterring aggression with one grand display?"

"With these Games transpiring, we can ill-afford that." Gideon countered, making sure to level his tone. Despite the prestigious last name, Viondra DeWynter was a _Peacekeeper_ by trade after all. And before taking office, she was combative with the late President Kane on the same matters. He nodded toward the communicuff on her wrist. "I take it you've seen the selection of tributes...and their profiles."

"Yes I have." She replied with a smile. "All are surprising. Besides one, I haven't seen a rebel of note."

"We've done a good job of facilitating their capitulation over the years," Gideon replied with a nod. They did _too good_ of a job if you asked him. "Most notable rebels are dead or rotting in a detention facility in the Northern Wilds."

"I'd imagine piling the selection with active rebels would do us no good." Viondra said.

"I imagine they will serve as valued entertainment. This selection of tributes, I mean." Gideon said. "Don't let their ages fool you. Where some may lack youthful vigor, they may be craftier in mind. If things go awry – as in they _try_ something - however..."

"I'll consider _all_ my options if the situation arises." Viondra finished with a thankful smile. "You're dismissed. See you at the opening ceremony."

Gideon nodded as he inclined his head, swiveled on his feet and began to leave with Antonia in tow. The two exchange knowing looks as they entered the Mansion proper. That's all he cared about, that _his_ side of the issue was acknowledged. Where others were interested in preserving _themselves_ , the Prime Minister was more interested in preserving Panem in of itself.

* * *

 **Lars Malatic, 36**  
 **District 9 Male**

* * *

I wake up with a gasp, quickly lurching upward as a loud chime rings though my ears.

 _"We are now entering the Capitol City Region. Estimated time of arrival is one hour."_ A pleasant male voice croons. _"I repeat, one hour until arrival."_

"The Capitol...?" I say aloud, groggy and perplexed. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, only now do I realize I'm not in a six by eight feet prison cell or hear fellow prisoners grumbling out of their sleep as they prep for the morning tally. Instead I lie on a lavish bed in an equally lavish room. The only source of noise to be heard, if I could even call it noise, was the soft humming of the train itself.

 _Oh yeah...right,_ the Games. It had all been one big blur. Volunteering my name, saying my goodbyes, being loaded onto the train, discussing strategy that as I swing my two feet onto solid ground, I notice that I'm still wearing the pullover shirt and denim from last night. I was planning on switching into some nightwear, but I didn't plan on falling asleep so quickly...or at all even. I guess that's what happens when you sleep on proper bedding for the first time in over a year. Even thoughts of the upcoming Games, which would keep _any_ person up at night, were no match.

Turning towards the end of my bed, I see a black garment bag. Inside was a blazer, a pullover and some trousers accompanied by a note on the hangar. _"Wear this! – Sindy."_ it said. Alright then...maybe now I could learn about those crazy Capitol bathrooms I've heard so much about.

...

"Jeez kid," my partner, Hermia, comments as she regards an Avox handing me another plate of food. "If you think the eats are good here just wait till you reach the crown jewel itself..."

"Yeah well, when you're stuck in a prison for over a year, Miss, _anything_ would taste like heaven." I grumble, casting an annoyed glare towards her. I _hated_ small banter. Where I came from, teasing led on to worse things if you let it persist. My glare softens however, as the older lady smirks while unraveling the arm of her turtleneck. I swear my eyes bulge when I see a faded tattoo of a _certain bird_ associated with a _certain someone_.

"I did a stint back in '46, after the war." She says with a small smirk on her lips. "I couldn't agree more."

All I could do was grunt in approval. Who knew this woman, homely in appearance, held so much history? I nod towards the holovision, watching as District One's Cessna Embraer narrowly escapes the blades of her treacherous allies. She ducks as a knife whizzes past where her head once was. "I couldn't help but see you were watching some prior Games footage."

With her smirk still on her lips, Hermia jostles her head from side to side. "Wouldn't hurt to delve in a little bit. Although I'm not sure how it'll help compared to younger folks such as you."

"It doesn't hurt to at least try." I reply, offering a weak smile. If watching the Games for all these years have taught me one thing, it's that anything can happen. It's a typical thought, but true.

"I'm not even sure if I even _want_ to try, kid." She says solemnly. "I'm still figuring that part out."

"Okay, how about you and me figure it out then?" I reply. "You and me, let's tackle this thing together."

Hermia chuckles darkly. "I'm _damaged goods_ kid. All I'd do is ruin what you got going so far."

I smile weakly in return. She was right, a _prisoner_ teaming up with a former _Reb_? How would that look in the eyes of the Capitol? Before I could respond, Elizabeth Verano and Sindy Wellington enter the car. Upon seeing us, our ditzy escort flashes me a smile as bright as the sun. Her sequined yellow dress and shiny vinyl boots aren't helping either.

" _Wow_ , you guys are already up and at it!" Sindy cheers while clapping gently at our supposed 'promptness'. "I commend your eagerness."

Hermia smiles, although I could tell this one wasn't as genuine. "We can sleep when we're dead...which may be happening _soon_ from what I hear."

"Chin up Miss Rhodes!" Sindy chirps without skipping a beat. "I may not be a Marian Green or a Liz Verano, _haha_ , but I know a thing or two about successful mentorships!"

"And by a _'thing or two'_ you mean _one_ victory out of a dozen tributes? I have to say young lady, I'm _not liking_ my odds so far..."

"That _attitude_ isn't helping either!"

"Hey Lars, the Bishop family told me to send their regards to you." Elizabeth says softly, shaking her head towards Sindy and Hermia as she takes a seat next to me. The teenager offers a gentle hand over mine. "To give up your safety like that, it's always remarkable to see."

"It's no problem," I reply, placing my cutlery onto my now empty plate. "There ain't anything ' _safe'_ about prison, kid. In my eyes, I'd do _anything_ to get out...including volunteer."

"I could only imagine. If the PKs are as rough as they are on the streets, I'd imagine they're even worse in prison." Elizabeth nods. "So, I take it you wanted a second shot at life?"

I nod, my hand solemnly moving toward the breast pocket of my pullover where a photo of Eleanor, Micah, Benji and myself currently resides. That hand then sinks under the table, toward the anklet Benji gave me before we left Nine. My demeanor instantly sours as my eyes droop down toward my empty plate. "Yeah, _something like that..."_

"Well," Elizabeth says, extending the arm in which she wears her communicuff over to me. I perk up immediately. "Luckily for us, the Capitol sees it that way _too_."

"Heh..." I snort, relieved at the dozens of positive articles, statistics and polls that put me in a mostly positive light. Colour me surprised. In a ordinary Games if a petty juvenile was reaped, the Capitol would often disregard them. Things must be different this time around. "Must be my ' _mysterious'_ disposition."

"You know how they can be." Elizabeth replies, mirroring my expression. Distracted, we both turn towards the windows as the train enters a tunnel, darkening the car. Seconds later, we emerge from the darkness of the tunnel out into the awe and splendor of the Capitol. Suspended from a viaduct, I watch on with intrigue while a valley that contains a highway, river and surrounding buildings roll on by. It was everything the holovision presented it to be.

"Here we are, the _Capitol_!" Sindy announces with her typical glee. "I could only imagine how grand the crowds will be this time around."

"With that being said, this is where I come in." Elizabeth says, turning towards me again. "I think we both know that things _will not_ be easy. But, when it comes to a tribute like you wanting to turn things around, I'll try my _darndest_ to try and see you though. Okay?"

I nod. The hill is steep, obviously, but we're off to a good start. In a predicament like this, you'd want to take any positive you can get. I've got something good going on here. If I want to keep this going, I'll have to cling to people who knew their stuff, like Elizabeth here. They're my only sure chance of making it out of this thing.

"I'd 'priciate that very much." I say, extending my hand toward her.

Elizabeth smiles while meeting me halfway and pumping my hand in earnest. " _Okay_ Mr. Malatic, let's get to work then."

 **Alana Oskoii, 59**  
 **District 8 Female**

* * *

"I say leave the flowers, it goes so well with her hair." Dottie says.

"Take it out, Dottie." Donna frets. "She already has the headband, we'll be overdoing it!"

"Guys the train arrived _five minutes_ ago," Janice hisses. Poking her head into the room, the escort's hands follow as she taps impatiently at her communicuff. "What's the all the hubbub!?"

Sat in a chair I sit idly by as my two stylists circle around like vultures, fretting over me like a doting mother. My face peppered with makeup and wearing only a simple white sheath dress with floral patterns, stockings along with some jewels, you would think I was ready to go by now. If it wasn't for the mirror in front of me, I doubt I'd care much about what I was wearing at the moment for my mind was preoccupied with more... _concerning things._

"Ms. Oskoii needs to be _perfect_!" Dottie chirps, glaring at her partner. "Unfortunately, a certain _someone_ is making that very difficult to achieve."

Donna rolls her eyes. " _Contrast_ , Dottie...it's something that _you_ seem to forget often."

"How about we leave the flowers in?" I say, breaking the stalemate. The only reason why I offered my input was because their bickering was eating into my already troubled thoughts. "Add them into the headband. Flowers _are_ in this year, after all."

The two stylists exchange clipped looks, before shrugging and making the change I proposed. Sauntering forward, Janice eases me out of the chair, caressing my shoulders with her hands as the two other Capitols look on with glee.

"I see you have amazing writing skills _and_ tastes in fashion." She complements. "Now _come come_ Ms. Oskoii, your adoring fans await!"

Janice and I meet with Malakai and my district partner Russett in the entrance car. They too are dressed quite nicely in suits with ties made out of rose bulbs. I offer an apologetic smile as the two men regard me with weary expressions.

"I'm sorry boys...you know how it can be with women, we take _eons_ to put our faces on."

The smile I wear falters, and I mentally kick myself when Russett frowns and pivots back towards the doors, fondling a band on his finger.

Unaware of Russett's reaction, Malakai smirks. "I'm familiar with the concept." He says, gesturing towards the door. The excited rumblings of the crowd outside is audible as day. "Are we ready?"

The smile on my lips immediately returns. "...Ready as I'll ever be!" I cheer weakly.

Janice steps forward, taking the lead. "Well, let us meet our adoring public then!"

I _wasn't_ ready. As soon as the Peacekeepers open the doors, we're greeted by the frenzied cheers of _dozens_ upon _dozens_ of Capitolites. I _swear_ my ears pop. Cameras flashing, our names being called left right and centre, we were _barely_ into the station proper. If it weren't for the Peacekeepers – who formed a tight formation along the way – we would've been mobbed for sure.

My heart throbbing a mile a second, somehow I keep skulking forward. I've been here before – the Capitol. For book signings, conferences. I got used to the admiration quickly but I didn't imagine returning back as a _tribute,_ their cheers meaning something else entirely.

Is this how Mary felt all those years ago when she arrived here?

Janice squeezes my hand. I exchange a quick enough glance to catch the poignant look she gives me. ' _Calm down, fake it till you make it'_ is what I get. I find myself nodding. _I could do that._ Block everything out, like when Jonathon would come home angry and make a fuss about the smallest of things...block everything out like when he would knock me off of my feet, I would just get right back up and do what he told me to do...block everything out. This was helpful as Janice shoves a pen in my hand and prompts me to sign a couple of copies of _Songbird's Cry._

"Alana, Alana, how does it feel to be selected as tribute!?" A Reporter crows at me. If Janice didn't hiss " _Focus..."_ into my ear, it would've taken me eons to respond.

"Umm...it feels very surreal, that I could say!" I reply, smiling in the asker's general area. They _laugh..._ I can't say I'm surprised.

"Do you have any plans for _When the Songbirds Cry_ in the event you fall?" cries another Reporter.

I want to cry _so so much_. Instead, I _block it out,_ shrugging off the question. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm _not sure,_ as a lot of things are happening right now. We'll update you though!"

While the onslaught of questioning continues, I notice Russett remains sidelined. His close-lipped smile shows off his true feelings well.

"You guys are aware of Mr. Gilmour here, right!?" I say, cutting through the screams of my name and gently dragging him forward by the crook of his elbow. "He's basically a _hero_ back in Eight. He saved his coworkers and a little girl in that factory explosion!" I explain while patting his hand. His expression quickly changes from shocked to that of a humbled smile. Like flicking a switch, the mass of reporters quickly descent on Russett and shower him about the factory incident among other things.

He leans toward my ear. "...Thanks."

"No problem Russett." I reply, patting his hand once more. I feel better knowing that he at least got some of the limelight.

"My my, I guess they were right about the crowds!" Janice awed as we continued on.

The streets were no better than the station, with spectators pouring out onto to the sidewalks and balconies of various buildings as they waved their banners and snapped their photos. Down a red carpet we were escorted toward two limousines, smiling and waving all the way. To my surprise Ayn emerges from the lead car, pompous as ever with sunglasses shielding her eyes and a cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders.

"Oh my _sweet sweet_ Alana, how are you my darling?" she chimes, gathering me into a tight embrace. She doesn't read further into my true feelings nor do I really expect her to. I could barely form a response before she drags me into the car. Once inside she gestures toward two familiar gentlemen who nod respectively in return.

"You remember Cicero and Justinian – co-victors of legalese?" Ayn asks, smirking as I nod. "Good. Girl, we have so much to talk about regarding your IP. _Sure_ , you're selling some copies nationwide, but with this - _all this –_ the possibilities are _endless..."_

I knew she was a little oblivious but that knocks it out of the park, so I check out of the conversation. Ayn continues to talk, but _nothing_ registers...except one thing. Why the hell am I here? Alana Oskoii, up-and-coming writer who was only at the – _figuratively_ \- beginning of her life.

 _Why me?_

* * *

 **Nautia Novakova, 29**  
 **District 4 Female**

* * *

 _As soon as the Peacekeeper entered the room, Idelia and I clung to each other instantly. As I held on to the hem of her dress, I unleashed all the tears I suppressed while making my way toward the stage. I was surprised when the tears of Idelia, the stoic tower that she was, began dripping down my forehead._

 _"I'm so sorry delia..." I heaved, trying to conjure up words. "I-"_

 _As she placed a gentle finger on my lips, Idelia shook her head as she blinked away tears. "When the pedestals raise and the clock begins to count down, think of **this** –"she said as she raised my hand tapped the engagement ring on my finger. "Whatever you do from this point forward, look to this ring and **remember** what you're fighting for!"_

Sniffling, I caress the engagement ring, watching as it rolls lazily in-between my fingers. Two years of bliss potentially gone down the drain. And for _what?_ Of _all_ the people that could've been reaped...it's an age old musing, but one that has _weight_ to it.

"That's an excellent ring you have there." A voice says. Accompanying it a shift in weight on the sofa I was sitting on. "Was it recent...? I'd hope not."

"It'd be a year now, two years together." I reply.

"I remember when I got mine, I showed _anyone_ and _everyone_." The One Female muses with a sigh. That sigh turns into a sad smirk when she reveals her bare ring finger. "But alas, I guess I was enamored with the _idea_ of love rather than the realities involved..."

"Running a big business such as yours could do that." I reply gently. She seemed _nice_ , unlike most One's I've seen on Holovision or as tourists back in Four.

Her smile grows. "So I've heard." She extends her hand forward as I do mine, pumping them once. "Aurelia Baudelaire of _Baudelaire's_ , but you already knew that."

"Nautia Novakova." I reply.

"Nice to meet you Nautia, though I wish the circumstances were better. I thought I'd introduce myself, seeing as we're the odd ones out..."

"That makes sense." I say, taking the opportunity to glance around the apartment we were in. This was District Two's floor and seeing how the Career Districts are closer to the Capitol distance wise, Snow Island, One, Two and Four arrived first. With time to spare, the mentors thought it would be beneficial to get us all together before the opening ceremony later this afternoon – get an edge over the other tributes.

The results are mixed at best. The mentors and escorts are nowhere to be found, the Avoxes tend to our wants. In the living room with us sat Snow Island. The female, Donna, sits idly by with a bowl of salad while her partner – Ricardo – eyes my partner, the One Male and the Twos who sit in the kitchen with enough hated to melt a girder. Sarissa returns his steely gaze. With so many people in the room yet our conversations isolated to our respective groups, the voice of the reporter on the holovision dominates. The division couldn't be more blatant.

"Hey Nautia," I nearly jump when my district partner, Warren, pokes his head in-between the space of Aurelia and me with a goofy smile plastered on his youthful face.

"You're a _spontaneous_ one, aren't you?" I quip.

He shrugs playfully and winks his baby blues. "That's how I roll." His demeanor shifts to one that's a little bit more formal. "Listen, I played up your whole Peacekeeper job for the up-and-coming Career pack over there. They like what they're hearing and asked me to come over and invite you."

I turn to look at the table in question, meeting the eyes of Two's female, Sarissa, as she talks with her allies. The chocolate skin and dark eyes, she reminds me _so much_ of 'Delia...minus her protectiveness and love and replace them with _even more_ stoic and churlish demeanor. I turn back to Aurelia who offers a close-lipped smile, although through that I could see the concern in her eyes.

"What about Aurelia?" I inquire. She was reaped, but it doesn't mean that she's had decent training...possibly.

Warren shakes his head. "She was _reaped_. Thames said she didn't go to their school. With no experience she's of no use."

"I'm _right here_ you know..." Aurelia hissed. With a playful frown, the teenager awkwardly pats her on the shoulder. She handles it well but if looks could kill, Warren's head would _explode_ on the spot.

" _Sorry_! But still, I'm sure she could find someone when we actually _start_ training. So...what'll it be?" Warren says. "If they come gunning for you, I don't think my _charms_ would be enough to persuade them not to."

I shrug, not exactly sure on what to do. A decision as 'big' as this so early I wasn't exactly ready for. Nothing was set in stone, but I couldn't just up and leave her like that? Well _of course_ I could, there were twenty-four other tributes to choose from. Although I imagine no one is eager to accept an Upper District tribute as an ally regardless. "I think I'll be okay _not_ joining you guys." I reply quickly, inwardly tensing. I gesture to Aurelia, who appears surprised. "Besides, I was just getting to know Aurelia here."

Warren frowns, casting a glance back towards an expectant Sarissa. "Ookay, if you say so. Hold on one sec, I'll be right back with your death warrant for you to sign. I'm kidding _, I'm kidding!_ Uh...good luck, then."

Watching as Warren returns to her, Sarissa regards me with a bored expression before shrugging and returning to conversation with her newfound friends. Thankfully it didn't appear to be angry, we aren't _teenagers_ after all.

" _Thank you,_ Nautia." Marvels Aurelia while patting my knee, "You didn't have to stay..."

"It's no problem," I smile. "Just being considerate, is all. I _wouldn't_ want to be cast aside."

I inwardly cringe. 'Considerate' and 'Hunger Games' don't mix, unless it means putting someone out of their misery. But you're going to need _someone_ to have a chance at success. Two is better than five or six anyway, if the past ten years haven't shown that enough. With two we can form _plausible_ plans of action, instead of stumbling over _four_ other people's opinions to form _one_ plan. This was the _safe_ option. With Aurelia here with me now, this early, makes planning a whole lot easier. And something tells me we'll need the extra time.

* * *

 **Verona Kinsley, 63**  
 **District 7 Female**

* * *

For the first time in twenty-odd years I light up a _Godfrey_ and plop it in my mouth. I waste no time taking a lengthy drag, relishing in that familiar minty scent that envelopes my mouth and lungs before exhaling once more. I smirk, contemplating if this drag was better than my first at the ripe old age of fourteen.

"I wouldn't keep up that habit if I were you, Miss." Tuts Everett. "Y'can't outrun the Careers with a pair o' black lungs."

I adjust my position on the sofa, continuing to watch the crowds on the holovision as they await today's ' _festivities'_. Arriving a little earlier than anticipated, we're to be held in our apartments until they call us down. A kind and considerate Avox offered me a selection of cigarettes to choose from, so I took him up on the offer.

"If my days are numbered young man, _and they are_ , I think I have a pass to do what I _please_." I chide lightly in return. Tapping the spent filtration into an ashtray, I whistle at Chris who hungrily eyes the mini bar below the holovision. "Go ahead Chris. Not saying you don't have a chance, but it wouldn't hurt to indulge one last time."

"Don't touch those drinks Chris," Everett snaps, jutting a finger towards the man. "Drinking away your sorrows – no matter how...legitimate – won't help anyone here."

Chris was halfway toward the credenza before stumbling back toward the sofa. "Could've fooled me, bud..."

The young Victor turns back to me now, his face full of what looks like annoyance and disappointment. "We haven't even prepped for the _chariots_ yet and you've already given up. What happened to the Ms. Kinsley we knew back in Seven, _always_ working, _always_ accomplishing?"

That strikes a chord, prompting me to scoff. Young people, they _never_ seem to get it. "Verona Kinsley died when her name was drawn. Don't give me that malarkey about ' _trying'_ either. You and I both know that's an empty concept, especially in my case. How come you aren't with Celosia Vale right now getting those snooty sponsors?"

He knows it alright, raising a finger in protest and stumbling with an "I..." before sighing and settling beside Chris in defeat.

The more I think, the angrier I become. Who was I kidding? Breaking my back to ensure my community was a better place, regardless of the War, regardless of and biding _through_ the constant reminders of our failures only to be reaped, carted off here and _killed_ off like I'm nothing _because I am_ nothing – in the Capitol's eyes. Once a Rebel always a Rebel.

Aspen, the old one-legged fool, was right all along.

...

"If I'm remembered for something, at least it'll be me ringing in one hundred years of tradition." I sigh, gesturing to my dress. "I guess some things _never_ change." Green, green and more green...Pine or shrub, Panem has seen at least _one_ variation of foliage since these damn Games were founded. A downside of our industry being so tied to our existence.

"C'mon Ms. Kinsley, they're not _too too_ bad. Could think of worse outfits to wear," Chris remarks, jerking a thumb towards the Ten male.

"Are you _touched_ in the _head_?! Leave my hair _ALONE_ please!" he pleads, stomping away from a persistent stylist. He was dressed like a frontiersman - raccoon pelt hat, hatchet and all.

The Stylist follows after him, pleading. "We still have time to spare, I must make you perfect!"

"I said _no_ , woman! What part of _'I can't'_ don't you understand?!"

After receiving instruction from our Stylists, we're escorted by Peacekeepers onto a fairground of sorts, unlike the tunnels below the Training Centre. The place was a hive of activity. All thirteen chariots wait in a row, tended to by attendants with some tributes mounted. Men, women and children – dressed in similar outfits pertaining to each district – also stand idly by. It seems we'll be having company with us. Not just them either. To top it all off, serious looking men and women in suits border both sides of the chariots with black cars.

A low whistle emits from Chris. "They're really pulling out all the stops this year."

"Looks like it." I grumble in reply. Typical, but we all know the Capitol _loves_ their spectacles. "I guess we'll have to bear with it a little while longer than we wanted."

Making our way over to our designated chariot, I hear someone call my name. Surprised, I glance over at District Nine's chariot and notice a familiar face waving at me.

"Well I'll be damned," I couldn't help but smile as I made my way over to them. " _Tobias Ledger_ , as I _live and breathe_ ," I let out a laugh as I embrace the man, clapping him on the back. I exchange a nod with the Nine female who also looks very familiar, as well as her partner who stands mounted on their chariot. "How'd _you_ get caught up in all this, I thought you were too slick to catch?"

"I guess my luck ran out this time 'round." He replies with a modest shrug. "You remember Hermia Rhodes right? Apparently you had a run-in during the War."

She lifts her wheat-skirt to reveal a nasty, angry scar that runs down the side of her right thigh and leg. As far as she'd allow it, Hermia also pulls down the neckline of her bustier to reveal an equally nasty scar near her breast. "Never got to thank you for that patch job, doc. Those couple o'weeks were pretty topsy-turvy, I doubt I was your worst patient."

I remember now. As a nurse during the War, I patched up many a body. But hers was a wound that was right up there. "Was it worth me fixing you?"

With a sigh Hermia shrugs, fixing me a sad look. "Apart from this whole _debacle_ , I'd like to think so." She says. I nod. I _want_ to agree. After losing the War a lot of us just tried to move on and make do, and then they went ahead and did _this_.

"Look at us, eh? Who would've thought we'd end up here?" Tobias says after a lull in conversation, gesturing to the activity all around us. "And to think my stint in at a reeducation camp paid it forward..."

"Well at least we're all in this together...right?" I say, my voice tinged with a fair amount of uncertainty. My fears are cast aside when the two of them grin from ear to ear.

"I don't see why not?" remarks a smirking Tobi. Why not partner up? We're familiar with each other. We may not have the strength like some of these young people, but we have _cohesion. Great minds think alike,_ as the old saying goes. What we do with it, I'm not sure.

Now, I don't feel as angry anymore.

The commotion around us is amplified tenfold when a crowd of press enters the stables. All eyes watch as the 'Mystery Girl of District 12' makes her way into the building, flanked by her escort. With the way the cameras were flashing and they were hollering, you'd think the girl was Victor already. The guards keep the press back and the girl keeps walking, her eyes fixated on _us_ as she walks by.

"Hello there." She greets with a courteous nod, something the three of us return. The escort frowns in confusion, but keeps on sashaying onward.

"Good afternoon, young lady." Tobias replies, turning back towards us with an impish smirk on his lips.


	21. A Grand Spectacle: Chariot Rides

**__**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games  
**__**

 ** _A Grand Spectacle: Chariot Rides_**

* * *

 ** _Marshal Sergei_** **_Kudryavtsev_** ** _,  
Premier of the Union of Sovereign States_**

"How are you enjoying your visit so far, Premier?" inquires Panem's Foreign Minister, Aristella Belliard. "Is The Capitol better than you envisioned?"

Usually, the various heads of state of the world – _or what was left of it_ – were content with teleconferences or the occasional summits in the Swiss Confederation. But when President DeWynter extended an invitation, I quickly jumped at the chance to visit the _hermetic_ and elusive _Panem._

From what I see in front of me, I was _right_ to do so.

As we and the entourage of dignitaries step onto the balcony of their ' _City Hall'_ , we are treated to powerful applause from the crowds below that stretch for kilometers down their _'Avenue of Tributes'_ – from the eagle emblazoned emblem on the circle itself, down the street towards the identical trio skyscrapers. Behind me, my aides debate whose people are fervent in their applause, _ours_ or the _Panemians_.

"I have to relent, Miss Belliard. I am very much intrigued by this display." I reply. The smuggled images presented to us by the Council of Nations are only a mediocre snapshot of the nation itself. The Minister's eyes twitter, while her ruby-red lips curl into a grin.

"I'm glad you aren't disappointed so far." She croons. "As we say in our national anthem, the Capitol truly is a tribute to our _darkest days behind_."

"Mmm." I nod. I hate to admit it, but my dear _Novosibirsk_ does not hold a candle to Panem's ' _Capitol'_. It seems that the apocalypse that ravaged the rest of the world served only as a footnote in Panem's history...from what I've _seen,_ at least.

When we sit down on our thrones, a young woman offers me a drink, which I gladly accept. At a further glance she was rather intriguing, a mousy little brown-haired thing in a red uniform with a face as pale and delicate as a _matryoshka._

"Thank you, my darling." I purr, raising my glass to the young lady. I frown when her eyes fail to meet mine. "You are _very_ beautiful, might I say," I continue. "Does my server have a name?"

Minister Belliard brusquely dismisses the woman with a wave of the hand, who quickly curtseys and moves on to the next set of guests. "She does _not_ , actually. We call them _Avoxes_."

"... _Avoxes_ you say?" I muse, glancing around the balcony proper. There were many like her, men and women alike, serving refreshments or standing in place with their heads downcast.

"Yes. Traitors who had their tongues removed as punishment and are reconditioned as domestic servants." Belliard says. "If she was to your liking, I could send her over to your suite when the ceremonies conclude?"

Nodding my head, I raise a brow in intrigue. " _Humph_ , a cruel but _Interesting_ concept..." I nudge one of my aides, making it a point to make of note and inquire about these 'Avoxes' later. It was an interesting form of managing dissidents for sure. Speaking of ' _dissidents'_...

"Why do all _this_?" I say, gesturing toward banner-draped buildings and flag-toting crowds. "Believe me, I enjoy my opulence. But where I come from we just round up our undesirables and _dispatch_ them, it's far easier than parading a select few around. Those few being _children_ might I add."

"I'm sure that your nation has witnessed since its inception at least once a struggle for power?" Belliard asks.

"Of course."

"Well, Panem is no stranger to ... _'conflicting interests'_ , as you've may have heard. Killing the figureheads of dissent _could_ stop the issue...or _prolong_ it in the minds of their aspirants, turning them into _martyrs_ of sorts." She waves a lazy hand towards the intricate skyscrapers that surround the City Circle. "Panem suffered _so much_ , getting to the prominence it has now. And to lose it all, because some people care about _self_ before _nation_ , is something that must be prevented by any means. If not we'd be like the remainder of the world – _desolate_."

I make a rolling gesture with my hand. "Go on..."

"So...why not take what's _near and dear_ to them?" Belliard continues. "Adults would have somewhat of an effect, but then again the risk of having aspirants is higher. With their children under threat, they have no choice but to temper themselves. When you add the 'pageantry' to it all, some children from one region constantly besting another region, watching as they receive riches and praise while they continue to squalor...it breeds _dissent_ amongst the _dissidents_. It's _worked_...for the most part."

I open my mouth to reply, but Panem's national hymn and cheers from the crowd cut me off. Standing to my feet, I join Minister Belliard and the rest of the dignitaries as we welcome President DeWynter and her large family while they're announced. With her black dress, medals, presidential sash and exquisite mink stole, she looked like she could be a part of my court. We exchange kisses on the cheek before she moves on, settling down on her throne just before the podium. When she sits down, everyone else follows.

I ease back onto my throne, awaiting the upcoming display. The Panemians have built an intricate system, it seems. But I wonder what _warts_ , if any, they have under their shiny veneer.

* * *

 ** _Bellamy Montgolia, 21  
Sister to Thames Montgolia_**

"Come along everyone, the parade is about to begin!" chimes Mother, tinkling her glass with silverware. It doesn't take long to hear the pounding of feet that bounces throughout the manor. "Bell, turn down the music will you?"

Inwardly, I groan. Being the daughter, I automatically assume the role of co-host for any social engagement we have, the handful of servants we have be dammed. Gleam, being the _darling_ he is, quickly rises to his feet before I ever could.

"Don't worry, I got it Mrs. M." says Gleam as he rushes over to the credenza and turns of the stereo inside. He joins my gaggle of cousins and friends alike as they pile onto the couch and focus their eyes on the widescreen holovision that takes up the entirety of the wall in front of us. Daddy, Uncle Sirius and his colleagues saunter in from the balcony. Even though Uncle Siri and the rest chuckle silently amongst themselves, Daddy remains tight-lipped and has remained so since Thames left.

"Bellamy, look!" says May, my younger cousin, as she tugs at my knee from the floor. "It's starting!"

After a commercial, the suave Marceline Devereaux appears on screen alongside PBC's Chad Blakely. Every year, it's customary for the hosts to wear clothing that may coincide with and hint the overall theme of the Games being held. Judging by Pearlana Singh's interview last night, the two opt for silver tuxedos that shimmer in various colors... _neat._

"Good evening people of Panem. It's your Master of Ceremonies, Marcy Devereaux, here alongside my wingman – co-host – Chad Blakely!"

"Hello and good evening."

"Yes, tonight is the night we see the reaped in their official capacity as _tributes_ for the One Hundredth Annual _Hunger Games!_ Can you believe it Chad... _one hundred_ years?"

"I can _barely_ believe it myself, Marcy. We could only wonder how things would be different if the Treaty _wasn't_ enacted."

"Pretty _mundane_ I'd imagine." Marceline jeers while sniggering.

Chad shrugs, chuckling along as well. "That's a fair guess."

May points her finger toward the screen and cries, "Look, its Thames!"

All thirteen chariots emerge from the National Fairgrounds, each one having a handful of people marching around each individual tribute. Surprisingly District One leads the pack this time around, with Snow Island before Twelve. The people marching around our chariot – actors I guess – wear jewel encrusted tunics and dresses.

With two snow-white horses tugging along a golden chariot, Thames and looked as if he were _King Arthur_ rather than a tribute. Draped with a crimson robes laced with the typical white dotted fur, a golden mesh tunic with a crown and scepter to boot, we cheer as he, with the charm that comes so natural to him, waves to the crowd with a cupped hand and a few air-kisses to boot. Aurelia appears to look the same, with a gown, instead of the tunic and a tiara instead of a crown. If she's scared, she doesn't show it, waving towards the crowds with the same passion as Thames.

Being cut from the same cloth her, I know _she knows_ how to fake it until she makes it.

Marceline seems to be having fun, making a motion of 'bowing' to them while Chad chuckles along.

"We start off with District One of course, represented by the famous duo Thames Montgolia and Aurelia Baudelaire. In charge of luxury goods, One manufactures items that keeps Panem _bejeweled_ , _bedazzled_ and _content_ for nearly two centuries!"

"Where would we be without companies such as _Montgolia_ and _Baudelaire's,_ who have aided in keeping us that way?" Chad wonders aloud. "I wonder, with their business acumen, what they will bring to this year's Games?"

"We'll have to wait and find out Chad. But if history has shown us, they'll play a key part in making these Games memorable like One's Victors and tributes have prior."

"Thames looks _amazing_ ," Mother choruses. Slowly, she casts a weary glance at Daddy. "Doesn't he, Lucius?"

Nursing a drink, Daddy's eyes never leave the screen when he dryly answers " _Of course_ , darling."

I keep a watchful eye on him, offering a smile when Gleam nudges my elbow with his. He never liked the idea of Thames leaving. I guess I could see why, the training at _Edenthew's_ was just icing on the cake of our wealthy lives. We were already victors if you asked me, just in a different aspect of life. Maybe this aspect of life wasn't exactly for him. Here's hoping he gets what he desires.

* * *

 ** _Clarisse Levesque, 43  
Mother to Sarissa Levesque _**

"What's so funny?" Christianus asks, glancing up from me as I place a platter on the table. Unlike many houses in Two, there isn't much jovialness to be had in the Levesque household. Christianus and I have been glued to the holovision set ever since Sarissa left for the Capitol...Christianus more than I.

"She always said she'd be up there on that chariot," I reply, nodding off toward the television as I take a seat. Dax pounces onto my lap, for the _food_ more than anything. "Receiving her crowd of admirers..."

They certainly played off her personality for her outfit, a _goddess of war-_ type of theme. She wore a leather dress with gold studs that accentuated her form alongside leather cuffs and a headband that supported her pigtails. The boy, Solomon, wore a white tunic with leather accessories and a wreath on his head. Sarissa was never the one to be the 'smiley' type, but on screen as the crowds cheered her name, she kept her head held high and a superior smirk on her face as she and her partner held their hands up in unity. The boy, Solomon, seems to have the same temperament, a small smirk on his face as he used his free hand to wave toward onlookers.

"District Two looks ready for battle...and my erm, _lustful admiration_ might I add." Marceline comments.

"You'll need to go to the back of the line in that regard, Marceline." Jeers Chad Blakely.

"Don't remind me." Marceline replies, baring her pearly-white teeth. "District Two, known very much for their ferocity in combat and patriotism that knows no bounds are represented by Sarissa Levesque and Solomon Kohli. I for one am _jazzed_ to see them in action, this year more than any other. Here's hoping they can bring the crown home this time 'round."

"Look at her...she wanted this, and wanted it _bad._ " said Levi longingly, his eyes never leaving the screen as the crowd cheers their names. Levi came here on his own volition, just to check up on us even though Sarissa called off the relationship. Poor boy.

I could help but agree, nodding as I kept my eye on that prideful grin of hers. Since Kindergarten, _Snow knows_ how many times I've received calls from school, talking about how rough and domineering she was with the other children. You'd think that with her setback back in HG 92 and Diana's death she would let those dreams die but _nope –_ that's _not_ Sarissa's temperament.

Caressing Dax's head as he purrs against me, I glance at her father then the photo of him on our mantle in his dress uniform alongside the display of medals he earned during his service. Christianus was like that too, when the War broke out. He too was _doing what he always wanted_. I saw him board the train a prideful man and return back a year and a half later a _different_ man.

I fretted over him as I fret over Sarissa now. At least he came _back._ Will _she?_ And if so, what state will she be in?

* * *

 ** _Melany Ledger, 39  
Niece of Tobias Ledger_**

"Once again, thank you for having me over Mr. Clear." I say, accepting the second round of coffee. "You have a mighty fine home here."

He waves me off, joining his wife, Sirena, on the couch opposite of the recliner. Her eyes were incredibly red...even though I haven't seen her shed one tear since I got here. "Please Melany, call me Ashton. We thought that we would extend a hand to you, with your family being so small and all."

"We thought we should stick together." Sirena sniffles.

"Of course, I understand wholeheartedly." I reply with a nod. Uncle Tobi told me the bipolar opposite. When he left for the Capitol he told me to forget he ever existed. _'Drop me like a rock'_ he said during the goodbyes. _'No use losing your job over my doings'_.

I can't help but smile when the cameras focus in on Three's chariot, carried by white horses with electric blue manes supported by people in silver tunics and dresses. _That's going to be a little bit difficult to do, Uncle Tobi._

Uncle Tobi was someone who enjoyed flamboyant clothing, so the silver double breasted suit and fedora that 'twinkled' were right up his alley. Like his typical child-trapped-in-a-middle-aged man's body persona, he cups a hand to his ear, nods and repeats the gesture to the other side of the street, as well as points to the women in the crowd while winking. Maia looks very nice, wearing a very trendy silver skirt dress, earrings and vinyl platform boots. Whereas Uncle Tobi was confident, Maia appeared scared out of her mind, her eyes darting this way and that. Thankfully, with a gentle arm around the shoulder, Uncle Tobi encourages the younger girl to wave.

"District Three, represented by a Mr. Tobias Ledger and Maia Clear, is looking dapper this year, albeit a little bland. Why pure silver, I wonder?" says Marceline.

"We're almost on the Avenue of Tributes, so we'll have to see." Replies Chad. "Tobias I hear used to be quite crafty in his day while Maia is quick on her feet, typical traits of District Three's tributes. I wonder how that'll equate into the evaluations and Games overall?"

"I think Gwendolyn Faraday needs a peanut butter to her jelly."

"A ' _nuts_ ' to her ' _volts'_ maybe?" Blakely jokes while prodding Marceline's arm.

She frowns. "Well on second thought..."

"At least she looks good, people might like her more, right hon?" Sirena asks hopefully.

"Yes of course, dear." Ashton replies, comforting her with a kiss and a rub of the shoulder. "Look, they even mentioned her track skills. It could equate to something."

Sirena nods, but after a second or two bursts into tears. "We're _fools_!" she laments. "If only we took a better interest..."

Swallowing, I watch as Ashton attempts to console his wife, to no avail. It seems our relationships are one of the same. If only, I put a stop to his get-rich-quick schemes and kept him home, maybe I'd have more to remember him by.

 _'It's okay Mel,'_ he told me when the Peacekeeper began escorting me out. _'Everything will be alright!'_

 _Will it really, Uncle Tobi?_

* * *

 ** _Idelia Accoune, 31  
Fiancé of Nautia Novakova_**

My breath hitches when the camera pans to Four's shell and sand-encrusted chariot.

Just like I was right now, sitting side-by side with her sister and adoptive father, Nautia was caressing her engagement ring as the chariot trotted down the street. She looks _stunning_ , wearing some sort of pastel bikini shawl that considered of pinks, browns and teals. She also wore a plethora of golden accessories on her body and in her hair alongside a pearl tiara on her head.

The boy, playing up that toned physique of his, wore a similar and _much_ shorter outfit that had the crowd _drooling_ for him, but Nautia kept my eyes regardless.

"My, my, my, District Four, represented by the lovely Nautia Novakova and Warren Holt, shows us that they _never_ have a shortage of ravishing tributes each and every year."

"Op, it looks like diehard fans of District Four are out in full force!" Blakely comments, watching as the Four chariot is showered with roses and flowers from both sides of the street.

"Could she do it?" Loire murmurs, her eyes glossy as her stepfather gently jostles her arm.

"She has experience...she's a sailor..." Michal says while he adjusts his eyeglasses. "Sure she's not a _standard_ Peacekeeper, but it _helps_."

"Of course she can." I say, continuing to caress the ring on my finger. All she has to do is keep in mind that she has something viable waiting for her at home.

* * *

 ** _Alexandrianna Busan, 54  
Mother of Geronimo Busan_**

"May I have another round of tea, Mabel?" I ask,

Mabel smiles, her hand slinking around mine as she takes the cup. " _Sure thing_ Alex, hold on a sec."

I move to pay her for the next round, but she gently clamps my hand against the counter and sternly but discreetly shakes her head ' _no'._ All I could do was nod and mouth _'thank you'_.

Joining the rest of the diner's patrons, I turn my attention back to the screen where the parade plays out. I had to get out of the house. With Gio's PK friend, Nina, busy locking down the streets, and everyone else I know hunkering down to avoid trouble, a restaurant was the next best thing.

They stuck with Five's bread and butter this year, as Gio wears a bright-yellow suit with blue thunderbolt patterns and a fedora of the same pattern. Tuesday wears a sleeveless dress of the same colour and pattern, alongside vinyl boots and long gloves. Gio, his kindness never wavering given the circumstances, waves toward the crowds while Tuesday offers her own, awkward, version of greeting as well as she frowns all the while.

"There goes District Five, represented by Geronimo Busan and Tuesday Suetos. Whereas Five is known for their tech prowess, Panem also gives thanks to those _intrepid_ brains of theirs, allowing them to produce a wide array of professionals. Oop, look! It seems Gio has some fans in the form of students from U of P – his alma mater apparently..."

"Speaking of education, an explorer _and_ a surgeon...this is a pair to truly look out for Marceline."

"I can't help but agree. I'd imagine those occupations would work out swell in a Games. Here's hoping they can play off those skills in the arena."

"... _Bullshit_." I mutter, albeit too loudly. Startled, I swivel my head to the right. He didn't hear it. I turn to the left, meeting the eyes of a slightly younger man in a lab coat – a _doctor._ I could barely make out the last name ' _Jaxter'_ on the ID card clipped to the breast pocket.

"You're saying what everyone is thinking, Ma'am." He chuckles sadly.

"Do you know Tuesday?" I ask politely, extending a hand and placing it on his shoulder.

" _Yes_ , yes I did – well, _do_ ," With a sigh, he drags a hand over his slicked brown hair. "You know, I've dealt with uh...relatives of tributes before. They have this _thing_ about them, this pungent _regret._ As I sit here, all I feel is that _regret_ and that sense of _why._ Why _them,_ why _her?_ What did they do to _deserve_ this? _"_

Swallowing, he reaches into his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He offers me one, but I politely decline. I don't want to jumpstart the habit again...although my being _screams_ for me to take one.

"You're right..." he scoffs dryly, jamming the stick into his mouth. "...It's bullshit. Two perfectly law-abiding people being caught up and sacrificed _for what?"_ he hisses lowly, minding the patrons around us. "If only President Kane were still kicking, maybe things would be different."

Nodding along, it takes every fiber of my being to not attempt to crush the mug Mabel gives to me. Gio's ' _skills'_ could be used to better Panem, not some idiotic... _'pageant'!_

First it was _Francis_...now _Gio_.

* * *

 ** _Marcus Giambrone, 52  
Father of Zahira Kazimirova_**

Even Chevy knows what's what, scrambling towards the holovision set while barking towards the image of Zahira.

Cyril quickly straightens up. "It's Ma's turn now."

I glance over at Luci, who sits on the loveseat with his grandmother opposite of me. The boy has been quiet ever since his mother left and it _scares_ me. He's already lost his pops, now his own mother – to the Games no less. And there's only so much me and Jo could do...given how he could be.

It seems their display of 'solidarity' – well, Theilian's solidarity – continues to play out well for Six. They looked like something out of a propo, factory workers basically. Surrounded by actors wearing similar duds, Zahira wears a blue jumpsuit and her hair in an updo with a bandana to secure it. Theilian wears coveralls with rolled-up sleeves and goggles on his forehead. With one hand linked to each others, both Zahira and Theilian wave to either sides of the street.

"And now we have District Six – Transportation! I love, love, love how the stylists have portrayed that 'working class' look about the outfits." Gushes Marceline.

"It's a truly inspiring look to say the least." Chad replies. "Speaking of inspiring, I for one enjoy the show of unity both tributes are displaying. Six shows a lot of promise this year. They too are also doctors, albeit different from Ms. Suetos...how will that work out, I wonder?"

"Could Ma make it?" Lucius says, earning the shock of the entire room. It's the first words he's said in nearly two days. "I mean, she's a doctor...and she knows other things?"

"Of course Luci," Josephine soothes, caressing his head. "Your mother has never been a quitter, ain't that right Marcus?"

"Yeah Luci," I reply quickly with a single nod. I take the time to exchange lengthy glances with Cyril and Lucius both. "Your Ma is a tough one. Not the type to just lie down and take it, just like you and your brother."

Here's hoping that'll take her far enough.

* * *

 ** _Boggy Evergreen, 30  
Husband of Stacia Samara, friend to Chris Samara _**

"There's Chris," Stacia says, as we watch as the cameras fixate on the tree-like chariot, surrounded by men and women in blush-like tunics and dresses.

Chris wore what he would typically wear every day, a plaid red and black button-up shirt and coveralls, but instead of denim it was _bark_. Ms. Verona Kinsley was a variation of tree, with the skirt of her dress being the roots and the top being the foliage. On her head was a crown made of olive leaves. Chris always had a good poker face, and it shows here as he interacts with the crowd the same way he would interact with our buddies at the bar, waving vigorously to those who wave to him, all while wrapping an arm around Ms. Verona, who keeps her arms folded with a bored expression on her face.

"Chris Samara and Verona Kinsley are this year's tributes from District Seven. Look at Chris, he seems like a lively guy! If Seven's history has taught us anything, his performance will reflect that."

"Verona on the other hand looks like she wants to be anywhere but here. Maybe it's a ploy to keep the heat off of her, who knows?"

"Like Tobias Ledger, she is of the War generation...maybe she does have something under her sleeve?"

"Look Pat, its Daddy!" Mary cheers, jostling Patrick on her knee while pointing toward the holovision. Her tone betrays how she must be feeling on the inside. She _has_ to be strong...Patrick is in the stage of questions...and chances are he'll be asking a lot _very soon_. _"Don't say that..."_

"Did you say something, Hon...?" asks Stacia.

I shake my head. "No, I didn't. I'm okay."

* * *

 ** _Marcel Oskoii, 31  
Son of Alana Oskoii  
_**  
"Wow, wow, wow! When was the last time that District Eight received such praise...?" Marceline asks as the cameras pan over the roaring crowds that wave Eight's banner, as well as Mom's book.

"A very, _very_ long time, although we could appreciate the fact that fashion trends seem to go with what the selected tributes wear." Chad says, giving Marceline a glance. "I see you're ahead of the pack in that regard, Marcy."

"I'm always on top of my game, Chad." Marceline winks. "On top of her _stellar...yet_ controversial book, _When the Songbirds Cry,_ Alana Oskoii will also bring in a new trend for Panem to enjoy in the form of her dress. She is looking absolutely _fab."_

"Don't forget Mr. Russett Gilmour, many wouldn't be alive without his quick thinking during the factory explosion that rocked the district earlier this month. He is a perfect representation of a dutiful Panemian if you ask me, and a perfect representative as tribute."

"You can't have it both ways..." Darcelle grumbles. "How are they a ' _good representative'_ when undesirables are reaped every other year?"

"Darcelle, _shh_..." I plead, rubbing her shoulder. "You never know whose _listening_."

It's only been a day and a half, and the press has been pestering us about Mom ever since she left. With the ceremony happening, they might've backed off but who knows if they've left some device behind to snoop in on us.

Instead, we focus in now on Eight's abstract, geometric-patterned chariot, led by men and women in very normal-yet-fashionable outfits that reflect the times. Mom wears a sleeveless shift dress, made out of white and red-patterned roses alongside white platform boots, earings and a headband to secure her bouffant. Russett wears a red suit with wide, notched lapels, trousers that flare at the end and a ruffled shirt underneath and a red bowtie made out of roses. Both of them appear overwhelmed as they wave to the _screaming_ onlookers – for Mom more than Russet t I assume. To keep him in the limelight, she wraps an around his waist as she waves.

"See, it isn't too bad...?" I muster. "She will most definitely have sponsors and-"

"What do you mean, _'isn't too bad'?!"_ Darcelle seethes lowly. She juts a finger toward the holovision. "Mom could _die,_ and for what _?_ What did she do, other than...?"

Exchanging terse looks, Darcelle leaves the conversation at that. Deflated, I sink back into the couch, ignoring the ringing of both the home phone and that of our communicuffs.

* * *

 ** _Esther Rhodes, 25  
Daughter of Hermia Rhodes _**

Why hasn't this country gone to _shit_ yet?

Drumming my fingers against the couch, Felicity and her husband Isaac sitting opposite of me as we watch Nine's chariot roll in. Look at the pomp, the extended parade route, the decorations...what a _waste._ All hope for normalcy ended with President Kane when his head was _blown off_ in District 1. This _will not stop._ Don't they _see_?! Why are people sitting in their homes and lapping this up like kittens to _milk!?_

"And now we have District 9 – Panem's Bread Basket! We have an interesting bunch in the form of Lars Malatic, a current _convict_ and Hermia Rhodes, founder of _Fargo-Rhodes Wine & Spirits _who valiantly declined her daughter's offer to take her place here tonight."

"Y'talk about it as if it's an opportunity of a lifetime..." I mutter.

"Convict or not, the ladies are quite enamored with our little _'bad boy'_ from Nine." Chad chuckles, as the cameras behind him cut to a gaggle of screaming girls as Nine's chariot rolled by.

The people supporting Nine's chariot were dressed like harvesters. Mom's dress and even her heels were made out of wheat, as plain Jane as they come. The jailbird wore a golden, long sleeveless tunic. Those multicolored harpies were _all over_ him, men and women eyeing him like meat. Mom plays it cool, politely waving towards the crowd but most of the eyes were on _muscles_ beside her.

"This is fuckin' _bullshit..."_ I mutter once more. "I wish I could bash my head against the wall and wake up, but I'm already _awake_!"

Felicity frowns, sighing deeply. "Esther..."

" _Esther c'mon..."_ Isaac pleads. _"_ You gotta _cool it."_

" _Cool it?_ And what, be like all these other squares, conforming to a government who sees them as useless s _tock!?"_

"Mom says _wait_." Felicity presses.

Isaac nods. "Haven't you seen what's going on recently?" he says. "We're barely a day in, who knows what these Games will bring?"

I scoff at the both of them. All they do is regurgitate Mom's same old talking points. Just like everyone else, they've bought into the useless knickknacks they've peppered us with to keep the flock content. I shake my head, reclining back onto the couch.

"If you ask me, the time for waitin' has passed long ago."

...

Alright, maybe I am being a little _too hasty._

Opening Felicity's garage, I retrieve a caste of liquor bottles filled to the brim and individually clogged with a cloth by yours truly. Opening the trunk of my Travelall, I stuff them in and close it shut while dusting off my hands.

If that display at the end of the ceremony didn't show that the discontent is there, then I don't know what else would. I hope Mom still has some fight in her. If not, then I'll be here to pick up where she and Pop left off.

* * *

 ** _Caliz Alvarado, 38  
Father of Laelia Alvarado_**

I remain pressed back against the chair, for its soft cushioning eases the anxiety that wracks my body.

Their chariot surrounded by farmhands, Laelia – _mi cielo_ – wore a buckskin skirt and boots with a black bodice and a shawl on top. In her hair were feathers and bits of different furs. The boy wore the same attire, but pants and an open vest with a headdress made from raccoon. Judging by the crestfallen looks on their faces, they hated every second on that chariot as they seldom waved to the crowds.

"Look Chad it's your favorite, District 10 rolls onto the scene with Laelia Alvarado and Emmanuel Cade!"

Chad Blakely raises his hands in mock surrender. "What's there _not_ to like about Ten? _Amazing_ food, _toasty_ weather, _down-to-earth_ southern values...By the way, have you _drunk_ with Annabelle Starling before?"

Marceline shudders. "Don't remind me. That lady has a liver of _titanium_...I don't know how she does it! But back to the tributes, these two happen to be some of our youngest this time around. I'm sure Laelia, like Maia has some athletic prowess going on..."

"Don't forget Mr. Cade. His Indian roots have garnered him a respectable following. He definitely has a skill set the competition _shouldn't_ sleep on."

"There she goes," Gloria slurs. She rises and stumbles toward the holovision set, tipping her glass of drink onto the floor as our sons Joy and Aurumn, retract in fear. She drops to her knees pointing to the image of their sister as she begins to sob. "Take your last look boys. It'll be one of your last because of _us_! Oh _dios mio_...it's all our fault... _all our fault_!"

I sigh, glaring at the woman as she curls into a ball at the feet of our sons. She's been a wreck ever since, but we still need to show a united front _regardless_.

I wave a dismissive hand toward the boys, ignoring her ever growing sobs. "Don't _say that_ Gloria. That's _not_ true you two, don't listen to her..." I say as I ease up from my chair, attempting to get Gloria to stand on her own two feet. She stands on her own, shoving me aside as she scrambles out of the room leaving an exhausted me and a dumbfounded Aurumn and Joy.

It was our _parents'_ fault. You'd think being _here_ was more of a punishment enough...you'd think one of _us_ would suffice. But instead, they selected _her._

* * *

 ** _Otel Sharps, 18  
Friend of Wondr'a Okafor _**

I find myself swallowing, easing upward in unison with Wondr'a's father and brothers when Eleven's fruit-decorated chariot dominates the camera. Linden wore an outfit made out of a silk, a very long tunic, trousers and even a scarf, all of which were patterned with vines linking to various fruits.

It wasn't any outfit I've seen before. They looked just fine – Linden and the supporting actors – but it was _Wondr'a_ my eyes were focused on.

She too had a silk outfit on, with fruit patterning, wearing a short-sleeved blouse that showed off her midsection and a long skirt. Her hair was partially obscured by a silk shawl. The accessorized her with various fruit-related bangles, earrings and rings. She looked as pretty as a _peach_ , even _more so_ than usual. From what I see, the duo weren't into it much, but they waved anyway to save face.

"And now we have District 11 – The Garden of Panem! Wondr'a Okafor and Linden Norton serve as tribute and they're looking quite nice this time around...Although I'm confused on where to begin. What exactly are we looking at? Looks like something a _Bohemian_ would wear."

"Well Marcy, according to their stylists Isaiah Lauer and Bethany Spratt, their outfits take after traditional Ancient-Asian attire, more specifically, _India._ "

" _Ah_ , I learn new things every day. I'm curious to what these two bring to the table. With the roster of Victors Eleven currently has, alongside recent placements, the potential for success is _high_."

"I-I _can't_..." Jeremiah spluttered, the ice cubes swirling in his cup as he shrugs. "Why, _why_ would she _volunteer_?"

"Your mother – _rest in peace my love_ – was a free spirit of sorts, as you might remember." Mr. Okafor replies, adjusting his glasses. "Sometimes I could _barely_ control her...the same could be said for Wondr'a."

"That doesn't answer much, Dad." Miles says with a shake of his head. "Maybe she was angry? But even if she was, there are less drastic ways of dealing with it..."

I keep my mouth shut, shaking my head in annoyance at their ignorance. Even during the goodbyes, she refused to let me in when she often did otherwise. If I could bet my bottom dollar, it was because she was _confused._ All they did was work her _ragged_ and when she buckled under the pressure only _then_ they came running.

I continue to watch Wondr'a's image on the screen, frowning when they eventually move on to the next set of tributes. I miss her sweet _voice_ , her loving _embrace_ , her overall _presence_. I wish I could've helped her more, but I was too removed from the situation to help _properly_.

But I'll _help_ her now, by aiding her folks in any way I can. It's the least I could do in return for her being so good to me and Gloria.

* * *

 ** _Channery Smith, 19  
Sister of Veradisia Smith_**

"It seems that the Guardsmen and the supporting actors are breaking away now as the chariots approach the Avenue Tunnel. Before we cease reporting for that small stretch of time, I figure we could say a word or two about District 12."

"Like Pearlana Singh said, change is in the air this year, and this seems _especially so_ with District Twelve – represented by Kaviraya Parathi and..." Marceline sighs as she frowns. "They've still haven't given me a name for their female..."

"Well Marcy, I'm sure that the suspense will be worth the wait."

"I for one enjoy the drama and look forward to seeing where she fits into the grand scheme of things. If you ask me, she and her partner look ready for action in those uniforms their stylists managed to cook up! I for one _applaud_ the creativity and diversity introduced in the last couple of years."

"I agree Marcy. Sure the concepts are 'typical', yet fresh at the same time. Twelve is a prime example of this."

Kaviraya and Vera wore a suit and dress colored black and bits of grey, copper and blue on the arms and legs that resembled the various coals and minerals typical to twelve. They weren't _ugly looking_ by any means. _They looked_ like fighters ready for battle, but still retained visual appeal. While Vera dominated attention, she made sure to include Kaviraya in as well, linking her arm around his elbow while she politely waved towards the crowds. Kaviraya was far stiffer in his dealings with the crowd, offering a tight lip and the occasional wave.

"Never in my years have I seen a volunteer so... _steely_ yet _refined_ in their approach." Comments Marceline.

"I can't say I have either, Marceline. The _Careers_ maybe, but _rarely_ have I seen an outlier with it."

I find myself agreeing with the eccentric Master of Ceremonies. If Vera was consistent about one thing, it's her attention toward the task at hand. I silently gasp when her eyes stare into a camera – perhaps hoping that _I_ am watching - and _wink._ It's as if she's saying, _"Trust me, I've got this"._

"She seems to be doing very well for herself." Father says.

"Yes, I...I agree." I nod. Inwardly, despite her pleas for my trust in her, I disagree. This ' _grace'_ will go away very soon. What does she think she has to possibly gain by _volunteering_?

* * *

 ** _Padre Marcenas, 78  
Father of Ricardo Marcenas _**

_That's my boy._

"I guess we were too enthralled in the festivities here, but why is Snow Island not leading the pack this year?" wonders Chad Blakely.

"I think _that_ is the reason why..." Marceline says, pointing to her own individual screen. "What was the stylist for Ricardo going for...the female's _hot date?"_

"Don't believe so...I have word that Ricardo Marcenas refused to wear a costume _at all."_

"Hmph," Marceline frowns. " _Panem knows_ what happened behind the scenes, but this reflects _very_ poorly on Isla Nieve – the Capitol's Playground. What a _shame_ , really."

"Snow Island has garnered a cult following after its recent string of victories and Captain Aristotle Onassis' networking prior. How will they react to this?"

"Judging by opinion polling they already _have_ , but at least Donna Cordillera – or _Ludra_ , my sources tell me – serves as a viable alternative. She looks _ravishing –_ harnessing that vibrant Caribbean culture that has Panemians flocking to Isla Nieve _year after year_!"

Ludra decided to play along I suppose. Resembling a peacock, she wore a shiny turquoise bikini while her body was sprinkled with glitter, silver bangles and intricate feathers that fanned out from her back and headdress. With a risqué outfit like that, the cameras made certain to showcase the men in the audience as they groveled to a triumphant Ludra who blew kisses toward them.

They tried to cut Ricardo out of the picture, but it's quite hard to do so with the wide angle of the cameras. Where Ludra and the supporting marchers around their chariot wore elaborate carnival costumes, Ricardo stood as a much needed _blight_ in a plain black suit. Stone faced as he gazed straight ahead, he looked as if he were in attendance for a funeral rather than a pompous display of degeneracy. I don't think I've _ever_ seen such an overt show of rebellion in my life. I smirk, clasping my hands together as Ricardo takes the booing and expletives shouted at him in stride.

"Our beloved Victors from Snow Island aren't very pleased with this display either, Chad." Marceline nods as the cameras cut to what appears to be a private viewing room, where they eye a jumboscreen with annoyance.

"Why would he do such a thing?" rasps Joan, gawking at the screen in sheer disbelief.

The grin never leaves my lips. "An honorable upbringing creates an _honorable man, mi amore."_ An honorable man _he was._ And the nation will see that.

"You see, _I told you_." Sofia seethes, lurching forward and onto her feet as she jabs a finger toward the holovision set. "I _told you_ that _this_ would happen!"

Before I could soothe her, Sofia stomps out of the room. Joan calls out for her, but I simply shake my head.

"Let her go." I say. I'm not sure what it would take to make her _see._ Maybe her brother fighting in the arena will do it.

* * *

 ** _Silvia Starr, 34  
Victor of the 80th Hunger Games _**

"Don't worry Raf, being outlier ain't _so bad_." I jeer.

I cackle along with my fellow Victors as we continue to watch Snow Island's slight fall from grace on the holovision of our private viewing room that overlooks the Avenue of Tributes. Their male tribute _Ricardo_ decided to 'opt out' of the festivities by wearing a plain old _suit_. Their escort, Melanie, openly berates their stylist on the phone for allowing him to go out like that. Rafaela crosses her legs and places a hand to her jaw while ignoring our laughter. Francisco, teeth gnashing and skin as red as a beet, looks like he's about to go _mutt_ and Joyceta? She doesn't have a care in the world as she scrolls away on her holopad.

"Hey Novia, Noriega, what's goin' on guys?!" jeers Annabelle, prodding the knee of an annoyed Rafaela as the Snow Islander sinks further into her seat. Annabelle stumbles over to where Francisco sits and ruffles his hair, prompting the teenager to angrily shove her away. "That male tribute o'yours has quite a pair of balls on 'im!"

"Bigger balls than all of _us_ , that's for sure." Koller sniggers while graciously accepting a drink from an Avox. "I wish I'd thought of _that_."

"And _die_ in your sleep of ' _natural causes'_ the morning after?" says Jason who declines the server. "I _wouldn't_."

"Not all dogs are loyal I guess..."

Those close enough to hear turn their eyes to Izzy who quietly sits beside me with a surprised expression, for that comment must've been intended for herself. Their faces – including mine – are alight with shock and amusement... _mostly amusement_.

Annabelle whips her head back in boisterous, drunken laughter. "I _like_ you. You may've killed my best chance of sharin' the burden of mentorship, but I like you regardless."

Izzy smiles a toothy grin. "Gee... _thanks_."

"Everyone, the _actual_ ceremony is about to begin!" announces Three's escort, Doris. This and the opening flourish of Panem's national anthem draws everyone over to the holovision. Why go outside and face the maddening crowds when you could just follow along here? With how _loud_ those chumps were though a _closed_ balcony door, we were right there _with them_.

One by one under deafening cheers, the chariots pour out from either side of the two avenue tunnels before returning to a single-file line. Lining the street as they made their way to the City Circle were people beating drums. The camera cuts to below the bigwig balcony where a woman in a tuxedo waves a stick toward a congregation of young men and women who play and sing the national anthem.

"And here we are," Marceline says. "The tributes have arrived onto the Avenue – to _triumphant_ _applause_ , of course. In a matter of minutes, the One Hundredth Hunger Games will officially _begin_."

"I see that the National Symphony Orchestra has been selected to perform a rendition of _Horn of Plenty_." Blakely adds. "I'd say their singing is _my_ favorite moment of the ceremony."

" _This one_ is mine."

"Which?"

" _Wait for it..."_

And right on cue as the choir moves onto the next round of lyrics, each district showcases their special effects. Gem fragments burst out from One's chariot; periodic sparks from District Two, Three's outfits begin to showcase television noise, pixels and all. Four spurts out jets of water, Five electrical sparks, Six continuous sparks as if on rails, Seven a flurry of leaves, Eight emits bits of fabric, Nine begins to shine like the sun, Ten emits smoke and gunfire, Eleven's chariot even grows _fruit._ I was half expecting Twelve's chariot to emit fire...but instead, they _sparkle_ – a _safe_ choice I'd say. Snow Island ends it all off with a burst of fireworks.

On top wracking my brain wondering about the _frigging waste_ of it all, I can't help but wonder why our tributes haven't burst into _flames_ yet due to all those materials being used so closely.

"That my friends, is my _favorite_ moment, each district's quintessential aspect coming together to showcase the many facets of Panem's culture." Marceline cries, jabbing a finger towards her viewing screen. Our escorts twitter like schoolgirls too – to our discontent. "District One providing luxury, District Two forging ahead – I-I just _dig dig dig it!_ My words do _it no justice!"_

Thankfully, I don't have to bear with this crap much longer as each chariot slowly comes to a halt in the City Circle. With one more gesture from the conductor, the orchestra ends the anthem with a grand flourish. The cameras cut to the podium where a small head pokes out from over it.

"Hi!" chirps a high pitched voice, amplified by the speakers and immediately drowned out by the crowds ' _aww-ing'._

"It's always a delight to see little Matilda, isn't it Marcy?"

"Maybe she's testing out the waters for when it's _her_ turn?"

Matilda is immediately obscured by her mother, President DeWynter, who lifts the girl to her hip for the audience to see before handing her off to an Avox. Her blonde hair styled into a beehive and her dress adorned with medals on her neck and a sash across her chest, the President takes to the podium under thunderous applause where she then waves a hand to silence the crowd whilst cradling her stomach with the other.

"Hard to believe she's having another." Piper Malveaux whispers to me.

"Gotta secure a legacy somehow..." I snort lowly in reply. I've heard rumblings about bigwig harpies dumping the burden of childbirth onto substitutes, but I guess the queen harpy herself preferred a more _hands on_ approach. With how DeWynter can be, I'm surprised Matilda is turning out to be such a _sweetheart_.

"Good evening, People of Panem. The time has come yet again to celebrate the One Hundredth anniversary and Fourth Quarter Quell of the _Hunger Games_." President DeWynter booms, that smug grin appearing on her face as the crowd roars with excitement. Another wave quells them. "A little over a century ago, our predecessors – with nothing but the absolute intention of ensuring Panem's prosperity today, tomorrow and forever... "

I already know where this speech will go, so I decide to tune it out. Instead, I wonder about how things would be if _President Kane_ was around. The old man was a Capitol through and through, but at least he tried to bridge the gap, at least he was clued into the lives of those outside of his gilded city to know that things needed _changing_. You don't need _District Three-level brains_ to know he was offed because of that compassion. And now, the same old, same old will continue.

And for how long this time... _who knows?_

Cessna Embraer from One points a finger toward the holovision. "What's going on?"

"Some Avoxes appear to have signed their death warrants." Clarence comments with a shake of the head.

The cameras cut to a wider shot of the balcony, capturing the commotion below. Just before the chariots, some of the Avoxes who served as drummers are forcibly manhandled out of view by Peacekeepers while angry Capitolites jeered and flung objects at them. What got them all in a tizzy? A banner the Avoxes displayed showcasing a portrait and quote by President Kane that read:

 _"I yearn for a return of a Panem of which our founders intended – various distinct regions bound together by cooperation, peace and just government – not overt fear and division."_

President DeWynter, showing no hint of being rattled besides casting a lengthy off screen glance toward the 'dissidents', smirks as she says "Tributes, we wish you a _very_ happy Hunger Games. And may the odds of course be _ever_ in your favor."

With that, the chariots return to the tunnels under roaring applause, the anthem in the air and fireworks overhead. Marceline and Blakely make no comment of what just happened besides the typical gushing they're so good at.

"The _nerve_ those Avoxes have, trying to ruin a _sacred_ tradition like that!" Connor snorts.

"They're probably _sourpuss_ rebels from the War, judging by their ages." Flo adds, before the room devolves into a ruckus of chatty escorts.

This leaves the some of the mentors who _cared_ enough to exchange weary glances toward one another, I included, who catches the eye of Three's Gwendolyn Faraday, who sits cross-legged in the far corner of the room. She holds my glance for a second, frowning deeply before quickly burying her face back into her datapad.


	22. Update: A Recap Post-Second Rebellion

_**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **Update: A Quick Recap Into Tyler's Universe Post-Second Rebellion**_

* * *

 **Early-Mid HG 70's (2143-46)**

 _ **So Close, Yet so, so Very Far**_

All events are canon compliant until the Battle for District 2. District citizens young and old are captivated by the Mockingjay, and after seventy-five years of oppression, rise up once more against the Capitol with the help of the thought-obliterated District 13.

The military _(Panem Peacekeepers)_ rife with lax doctrine and mostly inept leadership due to favoritism or liquidation, fail to suppress uprisings that topple district after district. Overwhelmed, Minister of State for National Defense Antonius Knepper consolidates his forces within the Cheyenne Mountain Complex aka The Nut in Acropolis, District 2.

Meanwhile, as the nation crumples around them, small-time bureaucrat Gideon Montresor, while chatting with senior members of President Snow's Presidential Cabinet, goes on a tirade about how the Capitol is failing to properly quell this rebellion. His rant wasn't just filled with empty words, however, but genuine policy. Impressed with this, Gideon Montresor was then appointed as a security advisor.

All in all, with his appointment began series of counterattacks, from Three and Seven all the way to the heart of this scourge, Thirteen, prompting the utter routing and destruction of rebel forces from coast to coast all within the span of three or so years.

* * *

 ** _Late HG 70's – HG 90's (2146-2160)  
Panem's Post-War Boom_**

The death of President Snow served as a blessing to all parties involved. Like canon I assume that his years of utilizing poison have caught up to him around the same time it did during Mockingjay. With his death, the citizens of the districts are spared a harrowing fate ( _mostly_ ) and the Capitol elites get a change of doctrine after nearly thirty years of micromanagement and paranoia.

With most of the Capitol's dirty laundry out in the open ( _a la Finnick Odair and other salacious Propos)_ , obvious policy change was needed to keep the population pacified.

\- To put less emphasis on the Games, the normal Georgian Calendar resumed regular use in conjunction to the 'HG' Calendar. For example September 1st, 2163 (HG 100) is used nationally although since the Games are staple within Panem, referring to years by the current number Hunger Games is more than common.

-Wealth was more equally distributed, thus the growth of the districts. Sizable middle classes are becoming more prominent. Electronics, telecommunications and automobiles were becoming more commonplace.

-Panem's intellectual community since it's inception has had an affinity for the past. This reflects in many cultural facets such as architecture, music, television, fashion and automobile design. This reached fever pitch during this era. Gone was the garish makeup, and 'clown-like' outfits. Capitolites, having been rationed during the war, adopted a minimalist culture. Clothing was still outlandish, caught up in Panem's take of Mid-20th Century retrofuturisim, but designs were muted enough to add a splash of colour to many district citizens' drab wardrobes. This social trend continues to remain popular as of 2163 (HG 100).

-Many of the Capitol's scientific elite sought so further pacify the population by making this style of retrofuturisim staple. Wide open suburbia, emphasis on family units and citizens doing their part to make Panem great are ideals that many people can tentatively get behind.

-Centralized urban hubs were now devolving as the Captiol began to revitalize derelict cities of pre-Panem.

-District governments were more pronounced. Municipal governments in larger districts were formed as governors were appointed for more independence. Instead of hyper-focus on a singular industry, tertiary services were beginning to grow (Mining in District 6's Upper Peninsula, Natural Gas in District 9)

-Teenagers and young adults outside the Capitol were no longer solely considered reaping stock. Due to both policy and upbringing by rebel parents, they were beginning to have more access to society like in modern times and carried with them certain idealisms.

-The HG Seventies and early HG Eighties were mainly used to kill off the children and relatives of Panem citizens both Capitol and District involved in the Rebellion. Many Capitol citizens implicated in the War were deported to districts. Upwards of the usual 24 tributes was commonplace.

* * *

 ** _Mid HG 80's – Late HG 90's (2150-2161)_**

 ** _A Return to Democracy?_**

After a slew of caretaker presidents, Agesilaus Kane was elected president via Capitol vote. He's the longest serving president post-Snow. The districts were taken aback by this president. Only before The Dark Days have they been so politically engaged on a national level.

An elderly man, he was affectionately called "Uncle Kane" in the media due to his warm personality and benevolence when the overall government still carried the taint of President Snow's ruthlessness.

-The districts grew even more socially. All the above changes during the 2140's-50's were amplified under Kane. Executions were stalled, unless the offender was a key player such as a general or infamous soldier. Quotas were cut significantly, social programs were beginning to sprout.

-Peacekeeper doctrine was less strenuous. Yes, Peacekeepers managed but also better served the population beyond domineering control. Troop numbers in each district were cut.

-This drew the ire of conservative elites, who still wanted the rebel population suppressed. Following the death of his Vice President, Viondra DeWynter, eldest daughter to senior statesman Chauncey DeWynter, was reluctantly selected to fill the role mainly to quell the uproar of conservative members of government.

The hate for President Kane among the elite came to fever pitch when he began denouncing the Games and advocated for reconciliation between the Capitol and its districts. In 2158 (HG 95) President Kane called for the outright dissolving of the Games after its one hundredth year.

* * *

 ** _Late HG 90's-HG 100's (2160-63)_**

 _ **Same old, Same old**_

 _(I assume that you've read my 'Calamity' story?)_

President Kane opts to tour the nation in fall of 2161. He often did this to continue to build upon his relationship with the districts, especially with the looming cancellation of the Games.

In Helena, District 1, President Kane was assassinated while parading through One's downtown core. His wife, Cruella Kane and Hunger-Games-Victor-turned-Governor-of-District-1 Serene Westenfluss was also wounded. And one Capitol Guardsman _(Peacekeepers known for their iconic black leather greatcoats_ ) was also wounded. Rushed to hospital, there was little they could do, as the president suffered from multiple body wounds and a mortal head wound.

Viondra DeWynter assumes power Halloween evening.

-The districts are _beyond_ livid. It was obvious that he was killed because of his plans for Panem not aligning with the elite, but the 'official' story of him being killed by angry rebels muddles any descent. Small scale riots ravage the nation as Kane's body continues its tour of Panem via train. Millions of Panemians nationwide stand by routes to pay their respects.

-President DeWynter is quick to quell any doubts about her presidency, opting for a nationwide election, the first in nearly one hundred years barring Capitolites having the power to vote for presidents. Kane's Son, Archibald Kane, is quick to throw his hat into the ring.

-Therefore Panemians were treated to a civil exercise unseen before, with 2162 being treated like a modern-day election year, mudslinging and all. "Third Rail" issues such as the Hunger Games were barely mentioned, for obvious reasons. Archibald Kane was eager to drop obvious hints about his father's aspirations regarding them. The 99th Hunger Games were intentionally muted because of this election. They continued yes, but viewing wasn't mandatory. Although due to the Games and their place in Panem's society, people still watched regardless.

-By the fall of 2162, the election was heated to say the least, following a nasty debate in which no holds were barred. Too much was exposed for either party, what with President DeWynter and her likeness to that of President Snow, and Archibald Kane and his eagerness to see his father's work done "By any means necessary".

Most Capitol insiders knew that any transition of power was going to be a bloody one. However while Archibald Kane was plotting to take the office by force, a more muted President DeWynter silently worked on a contingency plan.

Things all came to a head in December of 2162, Election Day _(Chapter 3 of Metamorphosis.)_

Archibald Kane and his allies allowed for dissidents alongside pro-democracy Peacekeepers, from throughout Panem access to the Capitol. The entire evening was spent seizing important officials and government buildings including that of the Presidential Mansion.

This played out on holovisions throughout the nation. Gun battles through the Capitol streets, Guardsmen hustling officials into armored trucks as Peacekeepers attempt hostage rescues. Archibald Kane played right into DeWynter's hand. Just as people were still going to the polls, Archibald seized the national news headquarters and delivered an ominous address, which offered him no favors. President DeWynter and the ruling Nationalist Party solidified their grip over Panem...although through manipulation on Kane's part and fraud on their part.

With the coup failing due to overwhelming odds, President DeWynter took the opportunity to settle scores. Throughout that evening and the next day, citizens throughout Panem who were deemed a risk or complicit in the coup were liquidated with many vanishing during the night or if they were brave enough to fight the 'ghosts' went down fighting.

It seemed that any hope for genuine democracy was over.

* * *

 ** _Present Day, May 2163 (HG 100)_**

 _ **Metamorphosis**_

President DeWynter has solidified her power. Ushering in a Fourth Republic, she now utilizes the presidency like a modern-day sovereign. 'Madam President' seemed outdated to the much more commonly used 'Your/Her Excellency'. To further placate the nation, she has re-utilized the position of Prime Minister of Panem, appointing Gideon Montresor to the post. Montresor's moderate approach to politics contrast with her authoritarian approach to governance, putting a smile on the regime. Loyal, upper class district citizens were also offered moderate-level jobs within the National Government, stimulating the growth of a more loyal and compliant population against the naturally skeptic ones.

The imprisonment and execution of former rebels reach fever pitch under her rule, with every week there being a televised killing of a former general or significant figure not yet culled.

Jumping the gun, DeWynter called for the Fourth Quarter Quell to consist of adult tributes causing further strain throughout the districts.

Socially, the ideals of President Kane and the reforms he's brought have significantly affected the population. Citizens are far more aware and questioning about their roles within society, wanting a less binary approach to living.

Like the mid-century of our time, counterculture is prevalent within Panem, with 'Bohemian' lifestyles becoming popular amongst young adults. As the 2160's progress, so does the growing dissent. But unlike previous generations, the dissent the Capitol faces is taking place in a less obvious form.

In general, many circles within the districts were coming to terms with the Games being here to stay. The issue was a "Third Rail" one yes, but that doesn't mean that _other_ issues weren't off the table, such as equality, labor rights, so on and so forth. Metamorphosis serves as the beginning of this.

This year's tributes:

Aurelia Baudelaire – Businesswoman  
Thames Montgolia – Businessman

Solomon 'Sol' Kohli – Former Career Trainee  
Sarissa Levesque – Former Career Trainee/Current Militiaman

Maia Clear – Student/Athlete  
Tobias Ledger – Con artist

Nautia Novakova – Peacekeeper (Navy)  
Warren Holt – Student/Career Trainee

Tuesday Suetos – Doctor/Surgeon  
Geronimo 'Gio' Busan – Photographer/Explorer

Thelian Caldron – Doctor/Psychologist  
Zahira Kazimirova – Doctor/General Practitioner

Chris Samara – Lumberjack/Construction Worker  
Verona Kinsley – Caretaker/Nurse

Alana Oskoii – Famed Author  
Russett Gilmour – Factoryhand

Hermia Rhodes – Businesswoman/Mother  
Lars Malatic – Convict/Drug Runner

Laelia Alvarado – Student  
Emmanuel Cade – Hunter

Wondr'a Okafor – Doctor/Scientist  
Linden Norton – Fieldhand

Kaviraya Parathi – Civil Servant  
Veradisia 'Vera' Smith – Miner

This year's Hunger Games have gone off to a fair start. As you can see via the Opening Ceremony, despite the pomp and glitz, there are cracks. And with some tributes harboring their own personal agendas or just looking to get by somehow, it will all come to a head once the gong goes off.

 **Some side plots include:**

 _The Capitol:_ President DeWynter, Prime Minister Montresor her cabinet attempt to quell any attempt to throw the Games off schedule as the security situation nationwide continues to falter.

 _Joyceta Rodriquez and Francisco Noriega:_ Once together like a dog and a flea, their relationship has dissolved over the past year. Mind you, they were 12 years old when they won and are now seventeen...the transition from child, to young adult victors as we know are...troublesome.

 _Gwendolyn Faraday:_ Our mousy yet intrepid victor from District 3 was given a last-ditch transmission from Archibald Kane, ending with her in contact with a foreign nation adversarial to Panem. She struggles with the potential in her hands. Who has the gall to help her? Could she fan flames anew?

And that, is a recap of what has happened so far. Expect by late Sunday evening (EST) or Monday.

* * *

Happy New Year everyone,

To Whom It May Concern...I apologize for my absence over the past couple of months or so. Though I doubt you were holding on to your seats too too much. If you were, I genuinely apologize.

In all fairness, my longest hiatus was over a year, and I finished that SYOT regardless. So take that as you will.

Things have been going okay these past couple of months. I joined the army, albeit in the reserves, but it still consumes time in terms of training. Training is over the weekends in the reserves, so it eats into my time. By this summer, I will be qualified as an infantryman, so I shouldn't be as busy.

I'm in university as well. My GPA is a solid B. As for January-April...we'll see what I can do, but I'm constantly writing in the background, so not finishing my story here is out of the question.

Again, sorry for the lapse in updating.


	23. Training Day One

_**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games  
Training Day One**_

* * *

 _ **Donna 'Ludra' Cordillera, 49**_  
 _ **Snow Island Female**_

When Melanie bursts into my bedroom with an Avox on her heels, I yearn for something besides my _soft_ pillow to lob at her head.

"Buenos dias Ludra, time to get up and seize the day!" She chirps as her face lights up when her eyes fixate on me. "Look at that, you've gotten a head start!"

"...You could say that." I mutter, scowling at the dawn that begins to break through the window. More like a _three hour_ head start. Like any normal person sentenced to death, I spent most of the night after the opening ceremony tossing and turning thinking about the days ahead. Where my mind resisted the need for sleep my body just _settled, leaving_ me to stare blankly at the ceiling until now. _God knows_ this is how kids before me must've felt when they slept on this very bed.

Turning around, Melanie retrieves a garment bag from the Avox standing obediently behind her. Opening it, she lays out clothing onto the foot of the bed. "Well, as you know today is day one of your training. So, here are your outfits you'll be wearing throughout the duration. _"_

 _"Woo hoo..."_ I cheer sarcastically, regarding the clothing for myself. It was a black tracksuit with matching underwear, colour coded with teal stripes – Isla Nieve's colour for the Games – alongside a pair of black runners. I glance upward, still surprised to find Melanie standing there with that stupid grin on her face.

"Do you _mind_?" I ask with narrowed eyebrows.

"Huh?" the escort stirs, giggling as I let out a soft growl of annoyance. "Oh gee _, lo siento!_ We'll be in the kitchen for breakfast when you're done."

...

Changed for the day ahead, I saunter down the open staircase and into the main hallway where the kitchen and living room share the same, expansive space. Rafaela, Joyceta and Ricardo are sat in the dining area, with Rafaela the first to acknowledge me as she pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit, which I do. I'm surprised when an Avox plops a savory bowl of salad in front of me, consisting of a medley of fruits, nuts and even a poached egg. I turn toward Rafaela, who smirks knowingly.

"I remembered." She says with a soft shrug.

"Gracias." I reply. This salad will probably be the only highlight of my day.

Adjusting the volume of her datapad, Joyceta picks up a conversation between Marceline Devereaux and her panelists of Hunger Games junkies.

"The opinion polls seem pretty niche this year." A male on screen says to Marceline.

"Makes perfect sense to me, what's _not_ to like about this year's roster of tributes...well, except Ricardo Marcenas of Snow Island, who's polling dead last city-wide," Marceline replies. "Obviously nationwide certain members of our society seem to be emboldened by his display."

"That isn't helping Snow Island overall I'd imagine. District 4 surpassed them in the overall popularity poll as of this morning!"

"Rafaela and her team are some _intrepid_ cats, I'm sure she'll remedy that drop somehow."

All eyes are suddenly trained on Ricardo, who nonchalantly continues to eat his breakfast. I swear I see the _smallest_ of smirks creep onto his lips when his mouth closes. Sending Rafaela one last weary glance, we return our focus back onto our breakfast.

"Francisco has opted out of joining us this morning." Melanie sighs while strutting into the room. "Mentoring is a _very_ stressful job Mr. Marcenas, if you want to perform well I suggest you say _sorry_ to him."

The events of last night immediately come to mind. Francisco looked as if he were going to explode when the chariots returned to the tunnels, engaging into a shouting match for all to see with Ricardo when we dismounted. He and Ricardo would've killed one another if a squad of Peacekeepers and Rafaela hadn't torn them apart.

"What do I _possibly_ have to say sorry about?" he replies casually, as if he had no recollection of _anything._ "Anyone with _eyes_ could see that nothing was wrong?"

"Maybe how _you_ see it." I snort in reply. "If you wanna die in a grandiose display, _adalante_ , but don't drag _me_ down with you."

"Don't worry about him." Rafaela says, eyeing him behind her round glasses as Ricardo leaves toward the living room. "Aside from this room, you are to keep your distance from him at all times."

"With what the press is saying, does it make a difference?" I ask her, shrugging. "What are the odds of making it out of this thing?"

It's all starting to close in now...what am I going to do, how do I go about this? Worrying about myself wouldn't be so hard if I didn't have to worry about the Capitol, who was certainly keeping an eye on Ricardo's attempts at resistance. Snow Island tributes always have a decent chance, but with the way things are going _this year_ I might as well jump off my pedestal beforehand.

Rafaela simply shakes her head. "Before we get onto the pedestal, let's focus on one thing at a time. Do you even know what you want to train towards?"

I adjust my seating a little bit. They have civil defense training in Isla Nieve, with the island being prone to freakish storms and foreign aliens. I've learned a thing or two over the years but I _doubt_ it was enough for _this._ First-aid is one thing, but unless there's a gun in the arena... "No. I don't know where to begin."

"Well, if you ask me, _any_ experience can be used inside the arena. Including skill sets like _yours_."

"You mean..." I haven't – well _never –_ thought about my side job as applicable in the Games.

"Why not, cutting out an organ on camera would be a plus, but I'm thinking more about the... _matiz_ that comes with it." Rafaela smirks. "When you're down there, make note of the menagerie while covering your own ass. Just treat it like you would _that thing_ you do."

I let out a laugh as I smile. _Of course,_ it makes perfect sense. Playing games of that sort is like a hobby to me. And doing what I do on Snow Island shouldn't be too much of a task. It should be _easy,_ even more so.

 _ **Laelia Alvarado, 19**_  
 _ **District 10 Female**_

"Your first day of training is about to begin." Harriet announces softly, glancing up from her communicuff. "Are we ready to go?"

"I guess..." I say tentatively, watching as Emmanuel murmurs in the affirmative, nodding once. I can't get a read on him exactly, having not said a word to him since we got on the train and left Ten. I guess I have _myself_ to blame for that. With my less than stellar reaping, even _I_ wouldn't want to associate with me.

Slowly, we shuffle into the large elevator where the Eleven and Twelve tributes are inside with their respective mentors and escorts. While the they exchange greetings, my eyes briefly catch those of the mysterious Twelve female as she _smiles_ at me. I barely return the gesture myself, offering a slight nod before settling in. Annabelle said don't bother speaking with her at all. _"She's a whole heap o' trouble."_ She'd said to me when we watched her recap. Given the _barullo_ she's been raising, it couldn't be more than obvious.

I've seen pre-Games coverage enough to know that if any tribute outside of a Career District smiles or is at ease with the current situation are _not right_.

The elevator filled to the brim with tributes, we descend all the way down to the gymnasium where were met by a handsome young man with slicked black hair and a chiseled face. Judging by his tracksuit with Panem's emblem on the left chest, he was a trainer.

"Tributes, if you could follow me please." He says in his clipped Capitol accent.

As I join Emmanuel, Annabelle clutches me by the shoulder as her ruby red lips move toward my ear. "Remember... stick with what'cha know or _think_ you can know."

"And allies?" I ask her.

"I'd trust that gut of yours over mine."

I say nothing, nodding as I move through the Peacekeeper-flanked sliding doors and into the gymnasium itself. Besides the blue mats, lights and seating, it was an expansive, concrete room filled to the brim with various weapon racks, obstacles and stations. It seems like with every couple of years, the gymnasium gets more and more complex.

"Look at that," snorts the District 3 male. Everyone's heads turn as he jabs a thumb toward a crew of cameramen in a far off corner. "We're going on HV."

The female from District 9 clucks her tongue. "They must be here to document the moment..."

"You know how they are..." comments the District 7 female, "Fanfare, fanfare, fanfare..."

The small group that made up this year's Career pack was early, obviously. The Two female, Sarissa, kept a watchful gaze on everyone as we made up the rest of the semi circle. Her eyes land on me, and I'm quick to avert my look elsewhere.

"There you guys are. I was just starting to think everyone decided to forgo training or something." Warren of District 4 jokes, a smug grin on his lips.

"You eager to be the first sheep to the slaughter, kid?" the man from District 7 asks in a joking yet bitter tone.

The Career from Four chuckles. "Not the first and _definitely_ not the last. Although...I have an idea on who _should_ be?"

"Tributes, cut the chatter."

All eyes watch as a stout, dark-skinned woman with buzzed hair stomps into view, leaping onto a pedestal before the semi circle of tributes. Wearing only the black bandeau of her tracksuit, her muscles bulging as she crosses her arms, the woman's head slowly turns as grey pupils meet each and every one of ours. The only person who could give her a run for her money was Sarissa of District 2.

"Good morning. I am Claudia Floris, head trainer of this facility. Every other month of the year, I serve our Capitol and nation as a master sergeant in the Panem Expeditionary Force. It is overseas where I learn the ways of alien cultures, where the Hunger Games would be considered a _farce_ to them. My colleagues and I learn from them and apply their skills here, with you. This facility comes with a plethora of stations in which you may hone a particular skill to bring with you in the arena. Of course there's the weaponry...scythes, knives of all shapes and sizes and swords of equal effect. And of course there are the 'technical' stations such as archives of prior Games to base your strategies off of, fishing, fauna identification, swimming and so on."

Claudia gestures to the stations she mentions, each being staffed by trainers who nod in acknowledgement.

"Teenager or adult, everyone would love to pick up a gun or a monk's spade, but I wouldn't lack on the technical aspect of the Games. As we've seen time and time again, many tributes fall to the arena's elements such as traps, muttations and toxic food that ravages your body over the course of _days_ just to name a few. You've heard what they've been saying, this year's Games could bring _anything_ , so I recommend you be well-rounded to compensate. Twenty-six of you stand today but over a course of a week, unless you're related to the Linscott-Gordon siblings or Francisco Noriega and Joyceta Rodriquez, only one of you will remain standing. That person nine times out of ten has shown enough versatility to brave the storm."

My stomach lurches at her words. All I want to do is go back to bed and pretend that everything will be okay.

But it won't.

"Usually, there are mandatory exercises each tribute has to undertake, but with this year's roster being made up of _adults,_ we assume that you have sufficient experience to forgo this. I also don't think it needs to be said that you are to conduct yourselves _properly_ while in this facility? No fighting with other tributes...you'll be doing that soon enough. Lunch is served at eleven hundred followed by refreshments at sixteen hundred hours. Other than that...any questions?"

Nothing but silence is what she receives.

Claudia grumbles, fidgeting with her communicuff before glancing back towards us. "Alright then, with that being said..."

A familiar tune plays throughout the general area where we stand, and I'm not the only one to crane my head in confusion, trying to figure out the source. A mix of a piano and violin, the melody is...quirky and quizzical. The semi circle is disrupted when two holographic children appear before Claudia's pedestal.

Lo and behold, the infamous _Vi and Pax_ appear before us, prompting some tributes to step backward in astonishment. Judging by the checkered blanket and baskets with them, they were having a 'picnic'.

"These must be this year's roster of tributes. So far, I'm quite intrigued." Vi purrs.

"Mm...Adults are the name of the game this time around too." Pax responds. Their accents are even 'more Capitol' than _actual_ Capitol people. ' _Rostarr',_ ' _Quoite_ ', who knew a pair of holographic children could out-Capitol President DeWynter herself.

"I imagine that means _higher_ stakes." Vi smirks creepily.

Pax waggles a finger toward the other child, returning the smirk. "And even _more_ desperate measures to _mitigate_ said stakes."

Claudia sighs sharply. "Vi and Pax, as we all might know. AI supercomputers that help facilitate the Games." She explains while the annoyance in her voice is _barely_ hidden. "They too offer advice, however _cryptic_ that advice may be..."

"Everyone's a critic, it seems." Pax mutters, casually rolling up their checkered blanket and mounting it on a bicycle. Vi takes the basket and mounts it on her bicycle. It's only now that I notice their uniforms were unkempt, Vi without her blazer and Pax's sleeves rolled and his sweater missing.

She dismisses him with a wave of the hand. "I say let them. One would be pressed to take our words seriously."

As they mount their bicycles and ride off with a chirp of their bells, Claudia is anything but amused. " _Yeah_ , at your own risk...You may begin your training."

With that being said, everyone slowly stalks off toward the various stations the gym had. Even Emmanuel went off without me, leaving me alone and gawky with the _Three_ girl, who seems just as lost as _I am._ With it just being us two, we're quick to lock eyes for what seems like a whole hour. She's just like me. About to leave high school, try to make a living of sorts, only for that to be swiped away from her for no reason whatsoever unless you count being killed on holovision for 'entertainment'. I quickly stride up to her.

"Hi..." I snap my finger in an attempt to jog my memory. " _Maia_ , I'm Laelia, District 10."

Glancing downward, she slowly meets my hand halfway and lifts it up and down. "...Hi."

"Do you mind if I join you?" I splutter.

She frowns, her eyes drifting away from mine when she awkwardly replies "...Sure?"

I make sure to smile, nodding. "Okay, great! I guess I'll just...follow you?"

She seems confused, while her eyes scan the entirety of the gym before shrugging. "I guess so."

"Alrighty, lead the way." I gesture my hands toward the various stations and follow along as she moves towards what looks to be an obstacle course. Sure, she might be a little... _apprehensive_ – just look at our situation, I'd be too. But after today we'll be better acquainted for sure. And why _wouldn't_ we be, we're two sides of the same coin. She needs me just as I need her.

* * *

 _ **Geronimo "Gio" Busan, 26**_  
 _ **District 5 Male**_

"You're a very um... _precise_ person, Tuesday." I remark, flinching as she makes another mark on her target.

"It only makes sense, being a doctor and all requires a steady hand." She replies casually, as if she's 'been here, done that' but she _has_ , in a way.

Using a serrated knife, she lashes out like an annoyed cat, puncturing the neck of the gel dummy in a way that prompts the 'wound' to gush with 'blood'. No matter where she strikes with the knife, the same deadly result occurs. A trainer watches on with intrigue, nodding as she lets out a slight mew of approval.

"It comes naturally," she says, looking over her 'work'. "For a doctor, the utensil is just an extension of the hand, it _ha_ s to be, or else the hunk of meat you're trying to put back together won't be getting back up anytime soon."

Slightly shocked by her use of language, I let out a startled laugh. "...Hunk of _meat_?"

"Isn't that what we are, essentially?" she replies with a shrug. I can't find the right words to reply, so I return her shrug. She's definitely has one foot in the arena already with that sort of talk.

Not to be the odd man out, I try my hand and select a regular dagger. I swipe at an arm, yielding a little bit of blood, but not enough in a way that Tuesday seems to get it to. I glance back at her, watching as a team of Avoxes clean up the mess and set up another dummy. She mangles that one up the same as the last. That's the thing, she doesn't attack with vigor like a Career would. She just casually swipes at any appendage like its nothing. That's probably why other tributes aren't paying attention to us.

Finally spying me from the corner from her eye, Tuesday sighs as she places the knife on a nearby trolley and retrieves a towel.

"Listen," she begins, averting her eyes once more as she cleans her hands. "I don't think we should be partners..."

"Wait, _what...why!?"_ I splutter back in response, completely taken by surprise. I glance around the area, thankful that everyone around us is preoccupied to watch. "Why ruin our chances, we might not be family or friends but we're from the same district so-"

"Which comes with certain _obligations_ ," she counters with an even tone, "Certain obligations which I _don't_ want on my conscious. If we meet up, I won't attack you. I trust that you'll keep the same promise. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to work on some trapping."

"That seems fitting..." I mutter once she's out of earshot. I quickly pivot and make my way toward the display of weapons, deceiving any watchful eye into thinking that we decided to brush up on different stations rather than breaking up. Once I reach the wall, hands on my waist, I ponder over the various blades and clubs in front of me only to spare a glance over at Tuesday, who watches a trainer set a trap. What prompted her to turn heel like that? No other alliance would keep her close besides me – her _district partner._ I nod toward a trainer who approaches me. _Whatever_ , it's best not to let it bug me too much. It's better to just get back up and go with the motions, wherever they may take me.

"Are you looking for anything specific, Mr. Busan?" the trainer asks me.

I nod. "You know your weapon history, right?"

"But of course." He replies, smiling at me. "I know everything from the broadswords of an arcane era to the spears of the tribes that inhabit the Northern Wilds."

I smile. "Show me your medieval selection."

* * *

 _ **Theilian Caldron**_  
 _ **District 6 Male**_

I can't believe this is happening.

Letting out a sigh, Zahira and I stand in the middle of the gymnasium, at a loss of what to do despite the lengthy discussion over breakfast we had with Izzy, Koller and Silvia. We aren't alone in our indecisiveness, as various tributes mill about, most _without_ their partners. That's _good_ , the less cohesive the other tributes are, the better our chances of us – I mean, _one_ of us getting out.

" _Where oh where_ do we begin?" Zahira asks me, her eyes scanning the length of the gymnasium.

"Don't look at me," I reply. "I feel like I'm in freshman year all over again."

"Well like in school, within a few short years – in this case _days_ for us – we won't see them again." She trills with faux cheer.

I let out a snort, the first bit of laughter I've had in three days. "I'm glad to see that you've kept your realism."

"It comes with the job I guess." She replies with a smirk. "How about we just...scout around? Like what Izzy and co said, having some of everything under our belts doesn't hurt?"

"And maybe we might pick someone up along the way?" I add. "Brokering some form of alliance wouldn't hurt I suppose."

" _.._.Sure." Smiles Zahira, although her face doesn't reflect the expression on her lips.

"I'm not sure I like that answer." I return her smile while gesturing forward. " _Okay_...you're leading this dance."

So, we start where any tribute would start, the _weapons_. You see it all the time in the recaps, the moment where the tributes make a mad dash towards this section. The difference between _them_ and _us_ is that we aren't helpless children. Everyone here seems to know the drill and knows it well. We watch from afar as the District 5 male is guided by a trainer to use a hammer-axe hybrid of sorts. He slams the hammer onto the head of the dummy in front of him and then switches to the blade as he hacks the neck open of the dummy beside it, all of which prompts blood, bits and pieces to spray around him, to the approval of the trainer as he nods. The man from District 11 wields a gnarly-looking sickle like an extension of his arm while the jailbird from District 9 wields a machete against a duo of armor-clad trainers. He holds his own pretty well.

"Here you go," says the trainer as she wheels the dummy onto the mat. "You're _lucky_. You're the first roster of tributes to break this thing in."

"What the hell..." I mumble, peering at the 'dummy' in front of me. Of course it was a dummy, but it stood up on its own two feet, with no stand to prop it up. Colored nude, it had eyes but no mouth.

"You're looking at a synthetic, human-sized dummy," the trainer explains proudly, chuckling softly when she says, "It offers a more... _intimate_ experience in comparison to gel torsos and pixel targets."

I shake my head, cursing under my breath. It just goes to show you the amount of waste they pour into the Games. Of all the things that could use a fix, they invest in... _these things._

Studying the dummy, Zahira lets out an ' _humph'_ while adjusting her eyeglasses. " _Whatever_ , I've seen versions of these in school."

"Yeah, but they were _unmoving_ on a _gurney_." I point out.

She dismisses me with a wave. "The more practice, the better."

Zahira takes string-based weapon the trainer calls a 'garrote' and takes position behind the dummy, wrapping the cord around its neck. Holding a remote in one hand, Zahira and the trainer exchange nods as the dummy suddenly comes to life. "Woah!" exclaims Zahira as she and the dummy go from standing to on the mat immediately as she applies pressure, clutching the wire by either end. Astonished, I quickly find myself scrambling backward as the dummy thrashes around the mat, struggling for 'air'. After a minute of thrashing, the dummy's face turns blue as it goes limp and 'dies'.

The trainer nods her head in approval. "Good show tribute, I'm sure your score will be a respectable one."

"You think you could do that for real?" I ask Zahira, offering a hand as she steadily rises to her feet.

"...If it means seeing my boys again? _Yeah_ , I would." Regaining her bearings, she lifts her head forward. " _Shit_...It seems I've attracted an audience."

Turning slightly, I watch the Careers as they begin to walk off, they too probably watching Zahira's bout with the dummy. Unlike the documentaries, they don't carry themselves with overt swagger. Instead they chat quietly among themselves, their eyes shifting from Zahira to myself before moving on. I also catch the back of the mysterious Twelve girl as she walks off toward the obstacle course.

"Do you think they saw me as a threat?"

I shake my head. "I wouldn't worry if I were you. If anything, it looked like the dummy was in charge of you."

" _Whatever_ , I was perfectly in control."

With a penchant for menacing weapons, Zahira also gets her hands on an imposing knife, using it with noticeable restraint, unlike the garrote and the dummy. She notices me gawking, placing the knife down and looking at me.

"Although I see myself as more of the 'supporting' team member, at least I could step up to the plate when the going gets tough, and it _will_." She says with a cocked eyebrow. "What's _your_ weapon of choice Thelian?"

Sighing, I shrug. "My way with words...? I'm not sure." I mean, what does she want me to say? We _just_ got here.

" _'Reasonable'_ is the _last_ thing I'd peg anybody with once the gong goes off." She replies dryly. "Unless those words compel the competition to slit their own _throats_ , I suggest you chose something."

"Heh, how easy it is to lose our sense of humanity..." I grumble, looking over the vast array of blades and clubs on the rack in front of me. I pick up one of the short swords, surprised at its weight while I turn it slightly in my hand, shaking my head while watching as it glistens against the light above. I think back to the 95th Games, and how Rafaela Novia slowly sunk a knife into the chest of the Twelve boy after a grueling and _personal_ hand-to-hand fight. It takes a unique kind of person to look someone in the eyes as their life drains away. Unfortunately I'm _not_ that type of person.

"How about you try a launcher?"

"I'm sorry?" I reply, turning towards the trainer.

"Slingshots, crossbows, harpoon guns..." she drawls,her accent accentuated while counting them on her finger. "Everyone _loves_ a katana fight, but I'm a _firm believer in_ weapon diversity." She hands me a handgun, but instead of magazines to load it, she hands me a belt of arrows as well. "What you have there is a harpoon gun. That thing could carry normal bolts, explosive bolts... Launchers like these are rare. But hey, it's the Fourth Quarter Quell, _anything_ can happen."

I level the weighty weapon in my hands, regarding the two women as I move toward the firing range just beside the rack of launchers. Raising the gun towards one of the gel targets twenty feet away, I close my right eye and fire as my arms jerk with the air it emits. The arrow whistles through the air, slamming into the throat of the dummy with a slight _thunk._

 _"And?"_ the trainer inquires.

I nod. "I tolerate it."

"...You ' _t_ _olerate_ ' it?" the trainer deadpans, as Zahira snorts in the background.

" _Yes_. It's efficient, quick and... _humane_." Depending on where I aim it, it could be. It's a much better option than plunging a knife into someones chest or hacking them with a sickle.

"There's little room for morals in the Games, tribute." the trainer replies with folded arms.

Handing her back the weapon and belt, I shrug. Then I suppose I'll have to _make some._

* * *

 _ **Linden Norton, 40**_  
 _ **District 11 Male** _

"This is some _top notch_ work, tribute," the trainer praises, nodding her head in approval as she observes the dummy laid out on the gurney before us. "Where did you learn how to do this?"

Wounded with a serious gash across one of its thighs, the cut was bleeding something fierce. Judging by the trainer's device in her hand and how much of a ruckus it was making, the dummy would've been 'dead' if it weren't for Wondr'a's quick thinking. Using a mixture of berries and oils from plants, she made a balm of sorts, closing up the wound and stopping the bleeding in its tracks.

"It ain't much, really..." Wondr'a replies meekly, her cheeks flushed. "My Momma was a real...outside person."

Wondr'a damn near jumps out of her skin when the trainer claps her on the back. "Be glad it rubbed off, be _very_ glad."

"Who needs these skills when all that matters is a good sword?" I say aloud. "When's the last time someone died a death from a cut?"

The trainer eyes me like I'm stupid or something, shaking her head as if she were speaking to a child. "With all the chatter surrounding this year's arena...I wouldn't be _too too_ dependent on the horn if I were you." She says, turning her attention to the Ten female. "Your partner seems to be on the right track. I suggest you do the same."

As she pivots on her heels and tends to the pair of girls from Ten and Three, I can't help but scoff. _On the right track, yeah right_. Ever since we got on the train, Wondr'a's head has been in the clouds somewhere, a far cry from the 'defiant volunteer' the Capitol has been fawning over.

Speaking of Wondr'a, I glance down at the girl, who's hard at work tending to a miniature garden. "So, what's your deal?"

Wondr'a glances up at me, her brown eyes wide open. "... _Huh_?" she mewls out, as if she were a small child rather than a grown woman. I dunno why, but it makes me feel _annoyed._ Imagine being an ally with _her_ in the Games. I can and it's not pretty.

"I'd thought you'd be over there swinging swords with the best of them." I reply back, jutting a thumb toward the Seven and Eight male among others who get acquainted with their weapons of choice. But as I observe Wondr'a closely, the girl doesn't look the sort to even harm a _fly_.

"No...No thank you," she replies hastily while waving me off. "I'm fine where I am."

"What do you mean 'no'? You _volunteered_ for this, girl?" I reply irritably. "Why the hell are you even here?"

Even though her face is obscured by curly locks, the sniffles she makes paint a clear picture in my head of what she looks like. "...I'm not sure."

Sighing, I shake my head. " _Listen_ , I respect you and all, but I need to start thinking about _my_ well being. I'm going to go do my own thing, okay? Good luck."

Her lack of a reply gives me full agency to pivot on my feet and make my way toward the weapons. It's common for tributes to volunteer just to escape some situation they were facing at home. Panem was a weird place like that. But I can't be tethered to someone without any resolve. What is _my_ resolve even? Return home to a district I hate and a dysfunctional family?

"What will it be, tribute?" asks a handsome trainer, his muscles bulging as his arms cross. I quickly divert my eyes toward the rack of weapons, nodding towards a real menacing looking one with a blackened blade.

"I'll try my hand at one of the sickles." I reply, pointing to it.

"Wise call." The trainer says. "It doesn't hurt to have some familiarity during uncertain times."

I let out an airy scoff. "Heh, you don't know how right you are..." _familiarity during uncertain times._ Scenes of Delia tensing up whenever I go near her, me berating Jarlan and images of Ace and Salas looking at me with fear and anger swirl around in my head. I can't help but wonder how they'd process my not coming home, given my relationship with them. Instead, I lean back on our goodbyes after the reaping, one of our happier times as a family...and those were rare.

I say my thanks as a trainer sets up a gel dummy for me to practice on. Just think of _them, think of Daniel._ They may not be pleasant relationships, but they're _familiar_. And think of the possibilities if I won?

With a roll of the shoulders, I begin swiping at the dummy in front of me. The first two swipes are startling, as they draw a startling amount of blood. The swipes that come after seem routine, it's just like...forcefully harvesting stalks of wheat. Big, wide as a tree trunk-like stalks of wheat.

"You seem pretty at home with that thing...obviously." calls a voice behind me.

"I'm a harvester part time, so I guess yeah it comes naturally." I reply, turning to meet the face of the young man from District 5. I make note of the mace he lugs over his shoulder. "I also saw you swinging that thing around. What for, you don't look the Career type?"

"No, no, I'm more so a guy who appreciates their history – the weapon's history that is. Why play it safe with a dagger or a short sword when you have such a wide assortment hanging around? It sounds 'Career-like' but, we're gonna have to be like that if we want to get out right?"

Well, would you look at that? "Yeah, exactly."

He extends a hand toward me. "I'm Geronimo, people call me Gio."

I return the gesture, nodding as he pumps once. "The name's Linden." I say, smirking as I wait for the inevitable offer.

"Now listen, do you mind if we hung around for a little bit, maybe get to know each other...as much as two people from opposite regions of a country forced into a fight to the death could get to know each other? If we don't get acquainted by the end of the day, we could just move on?"

"Sure, I don't see why not?" I reply, reflecting the smile on his face. Unlike Wondr'a, who's stuck in her own world, this Gio guy seems a helluva lot more trustworthy and reliable. Sure it could turn back to bite me, but we can cross that bridge when we get there. All we need is another tribute who shares the same mindset and we could be viable – enough to keep the Capitol's attention.

"Alright Linden, sounds good."

 _ **Ricardo Marcenas, 50**_  
 _ **Snow Island Male**_

Look at you guys, so _gullible_.

Shaking my head in utter disdain, I watch from a bench as each tribute eagerly tends to a station of their choosing. Like drones, it's as if they've forgotten their livelihoods and inhibitions and dedicated themselves towards how to best outlive and kill one another. I expect this from scared children, but grown men and women, some of which lived through the war or tasted its bitter aftermath?! You'd think they would show some restraint – no, some form of defiance – like the older folks from Three, Seven and Nine, who sit at a nearby roundtable and haven't moved since the trainers gave us the go-ahead.

My head cranes upward when that peculiar tune flutters through the air. The two holographic children appear just feet before me, the boy hauling fish off a rod from a invisible river and the girl reading a book on a picnic blanket while nibbling on a sandwich.

"Burly, intimidating..." drawls the girl, swallowing her food.

"And don't forget _intelligent_ , as he couldn't have gotten very far without that." The boy replies, observing the fish in his hands.

"So why does he sit here, merely observing when he could obviously be putting his prowess to use?" finishes the girl, casually closing the book in her hands.

"I don't think you've really taken him in, my dear colleague. He clearly has a case of defiance." Says the boy, tossing the fish 'away'.

The girl frowns. "Mmm, oh yes, yesterday's display was... _unprecedented_ to say the least."

"I imagine he will end up playing the game soon enough." says the boy.

"They always do, often sinking to a lower level than those they criticize." replies the girl. They both turn to me now, their faces expressionless.

"I'm not playing your ' _game'_ , simple as that." I snort, crossing a leg.

"How does one _'opt out'_ exactly?" inquires the boy with furrowed brows. "Are you just going to take a leap of faith before the gong goes off?"

"The Snow Island male pegs me as a prideful type, not the sort to end it all outright." The girl replies. "I'd wager he'd be like he is now, all pouty while mutts tear him limb from limb."

Having enough, I quickly rise from the bench, huffing as I stomp off. To where exactly? _Anywhere_ but where those two... _things_ were. I think it's safe to say that they were what I hate most about these 'Games'. Designing artificial intelligence for the Hunger Games was a waste in of itself, but giving them the likeness of innocent children...

"If I were him, I'd at least pick up a skill or two." I hear the boy say from behind me in a sing-song tone.

"If he wants his futile attempt of resistance to go anywhere," the girl replies, "He'd better."

Still I resist their teasing, instead pacing past each station with a keen eye, watching the occasional tribute try their hand at their contents. It was around a closed-off room named the 'VR Room' that I noticed I had grown a tail.

"What do you want?" I snap, turning to meet the face of District Two's female, Sarissa Levesque. She stands ten feet away while leaning against a pillar. Unlike most people who still at my rough voice, she begins to close the distance with a small smirk on her lips.

"Oh you know..." she replies casually, unperturbed by my hard exterior. "I'm just scouting the competition."

"Look around, there's plenty of others to choose fro-" my eyes narrow as she flashes a hand in my vision.

"The _real_ competition," she presses, her tone becoming far more serious. "I can kill every tribute in this room six ways till Sunday...but _you_ , you're just one big question mark."

"Is that so?" I ask with a raised eyebrow. "Aren't you a little too _old_ to be playing the Career game?"

"Not if you're the one training them up." She counters.

"So you're an active Peacekeeper then? Army, Expeditionary?" I inquire with folded arms. "That's usually what Career rejects end up doing."

"No, the Militia." She replies, making no show of allowing my words to sting. "But with how boomin' work is, I mise' well be active duty."

"Ah si...Now I know where it comes from." I muse, referencing the poor mannerisms of 'tributes' from her district. "How does it feel to facilitate the death of children, I wonder?"

"All I do is prepare them the best I can. Some have it, some _don't_." Sarissa replies without missing a beat.

"And _you do?_ " I fire back.

That touches a nerve. I can barely hide my smirk as her face flushes with annoyance. "Yeah, no _shit_. Why the fuck would I be here otherwise?"

"I'm not sure." I reply casually. "Blind adoration of Capitol and country?" I've served with plenty of them, and she was a _typical_ Two down to a _tee_. Cocky, bloodthirsty, _stubborn._

"You know, they teach about you in Two." She says after we spend a minute glaring into each other's eyes.

My brows furrow with intrigue. "Do they now? Do they teach anything about my undying love for the island and its people?"

She shakes her head, her lips wearing a sardonic smirk. "No, though they did get the arrogance part down pat. That being said, thank Snow you and your father weren't totally at the helm, or else Panem would've lost the whole of the Carrib."

"Do _not_ talk about my father or I will kill you where you stand!" I caution while ignoring the watchful eyes we start to attract. The Peacekeepers stationed near us exchange glances, but make no move to separate us. Levesque, being the girl she is – that's what she is at the end of the day – being as old as a twenty-something Sofia, just _smiles._

"I'm not fazed by hard talk, Captain..." she replies. "In here actions speak louder than words and from what I see, especially yesterday's shitshow, neither are sufficient in your case."

Having heard enough, and wanting to stop myself before snuffing her life with my bare hands, I stomp off to the 'VR Room', a room boxed in by glass panels. I'm greeted by the attendant, a woman with purple cropped hair and vine tattoos snaked on her right arm.

"Good day tribute, care to try a combat simulation? This is the closest thing you can get to the Games before they start."

"Si." I nod, casting a glance outside where Sarissa and her gaggle of idiots stand waiting. I select a fake longsword, giving it a few practice swings. It was akin to any machete or field tool back on the island, so it was easy to take up and use.

"Like I said, this is the best thing besides the Games themselves," rambles the trainer as she fastens the last piece of armor onto my person. "Multiple targets will engage you with various levels of difficulty. If they hit a pressure point assigned to a part of your body, you will feel the effects. The same could be said with your sword. We shall begin with ten targets."

Nodding, I stride toward the middle of the room as the lights begin to dimmer. Silence covers the room for a moment before I find myself focusing on a whirring sound. My eyes shift to the corner of the room where four golden lights congregate. They move in tandem until a silhouetted man made of cubes armed with a mace materializes and begins to charge me.

"While kids go by with nothing to eat..." casually, I sidestep the mace as the dummy slams it to the ground while I raise my sword and bring it down upon its neck, watching as the dummy's head splits from its body while the two pieces explode into tinier cubes. It goes on like this for the next seven targets.

"My Gods...throughout all the trial runs I've had, I've never seen a test subject so _uninterested_." The trainer remarks over the loudspeaker. "Fight like you have a _purpose_!"

Fighting in the Games requires no ' _purpose'_. But in regards to my predicament, I suppose she has a point.

As I dispatch the eighth dummy by disarming it and skewering it in the chest, two sword-wielding dummies materialize from either end of the room and move to engage me. I parry the blow from the left one, just as I feel my back 'give out' while the dummy on the right strikes me. I drop to my stomach and spin, sword in hand. One dummy jumps while the other isn't so lucky, dispatching its legs with one spin. Recovering to my knees, I barely evade a sword to the forehead just as the unlucky dummy from before is reduced to minuscule cubes of dust. I turn toward the last dummy as it raises its sword for another downward chop. If the dummy had a face, it would be one of astonishment as its sword is sent whistling out of its hands by my upward counter. Standing on my own two feet now and with a powering step forward, I bring my sword down upon the unarmed dummy. For a second it stands motionless, only to teeter forward and dissipate into two separate halves. The lights return back to normal, signaling the end to this pathetic display of excess.

"That was a _Capitol_ show, tribute." The trainer applauds.

"Gracias...for that was the only one you're going to get." I reply dryly in return, turning my attention towards the outside.

Beyond the sliding door, where some tributes watch, I just see the behind of Sarissa and her Careers as they skulk off elsewhere. Beyond them I can see the VIP balcony where _they_ watch. Most noticeably however, right behind the sliding doors, stands the District 12 female, gently applauding with coyest smile on her lips.

 _ **Tobias Ledger, 63**_  
 _ **District 3 Male**_

Verona lets a low whistle escape from her lips. " _Well_ , that was an _interesting_ display."

"I'll have you guys know that when I was his age, I had moves like that too..." I reply, while making a show of puffing out my chest.

"The man's _fifty_ at most. You're aging yourself pretty badly there." Verona replies wryly.

"Sixty-three is a whole new ballgame." I reply with a smile.

"...I should know," Verona guffaws, her hands shooting into the air. " _I'm there myself_!"

While Hermia and Verona share a chuckle I opt to show my amusement by grinning, following behind as we return to our table at the 'wilderness survival' section. Since being dismissed by the Head Trainer, this is where we set up 'camp' while watching the younger adults have at it with the various equipment available. We three have learned precious little in our hours of sitting here, drawing the ire of the trainers tasked with this portion of the gym.

"Are you three actually going to _learn something_ or are you just going to _sit_ there?" One of the trainers asks us. Behind him is a pair of twin girls, their glares and crossed arms identical to his.

"But young sir, we _are_ learning..." I reply, motioning to Hermia and Verona. "...About each other! It's been so long since I've seen these women."

Verona nods. "Mhm, we're building _alliance cohesion_. Results are best shown when we _aren't interrupted,_ so scram!"

We snigger when the young man, in typical Capitol fashion, tosses his arms into the air and moves to join the District 11 female, all while the twin girls huff out a joint "Hmph!" and follow behind with noses pointed in the air.

"They still get paid and we die either way, dunno what it is to them." I mutter, nodding off to the set of dominoes on the table. I smuggled them in from upstairs. Besides glares from the Peacekeepers and trainers, I haven't been chewed out yet. "How about we play another game of muggins?"

Spooning them with her hands, Verona corrals them towards her. "I'll shuffle them around."

When the sniggers die down, I say, "Who would've thought we'd reunited _here_ of all places?"

When my name was drawn, I'd be one helluva liar to say I wasn't scared outta my mind. But true to my craft, my ability to put on a face of confidence was enough to bide me through the shock, even if it was based on a bluff. But now that I'm here with Verona and Hermia, people who I thought were long dead...that fearlessness isn't so much a front, but more so _relief._ Going through this with two other folks, who understand and have been though what I have, it's a comfort thing.

"In all truthfulness Tobi," Verona replies under a keen gaze, "I thought a man of your... _trickiness_ would be dead."

"People with my skillset tend to slip into the background when shit hits the fan." I reply with a coy smirk. My smirk falters when I ask, "How's your dad holding up, he's probably old as dirt now." Working in customs allowed me to see the better part of Western Panem. Verona's old man was a bigwig within Seven's rebel cell. He too was a part of the network of rebels smuggling information...food...weapons.

The sad smile and small shake of the head that follows is enough for me to nod and mutter out a quiet. "Oh..."

"How's Thaddeus?" Verona asks in return.

"No longer with us." I reply curtly.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry to hear that."

"No worries. It's too bad, just as the War was coming to an end too. Being knocked out of the fight so early gave the Capitol plenty of time to compile a list of dissidents. He happened to be on it."

"I was a doctor, as you know, probably the _only_ reason why they kept me alive after capturing me."

I turn to Hermia now, who's awfully quiet for some reason. "What's your story Rhodes? You have to have one, given the last time we talked you were working customs in District _Two_ , not Nine."

She begins with the Battle for District 2 and the Capitol counterattack following the failed siege of the Nut and then the retreat eastward when the Capitol regained their momentum. Hermia packed up and left for Nine. During one of her scouting runs she was injured by an airstrike, thus the nasty scars. During her stay in a makeshift hospital she'd met Verona and more specifically a _boy_. They were really itching to take the city away from rebel hands so they began evacuating her and the injured to safer grounds. Hermia was safe, but the boy was killed when they gassed that shelter and the surrounding blocks.

"I wasn't special, they tossed me into a camp like every other defeated rebel, then they let me go when I had no use for me." She finishes. "It was then when I found out I was pregnant. His folks took good care of me though. I was definitely lucky."

"Yep..." I add, "Very, _very_ lucky."

It's after a minute of heavy silence until Hermia shoots out from her seat and begins to pace.

"We...we _really_ fucked up, didn't we?" Hermia says with a deflated sigh, gesturing haphazardly to the contents of the gym. The Peacekeepers keeping a keen eye, tributes prepping for the hundredth time to fight for the death, it's all _still here_ because _we_ didn't fight hard enough. " _Christ_...it's all really sinking in now."

Verona replies with a nod. "Yeah, I can cosign that. We fucked up real bad. And out of _all the people_ they could pick..."

"All ' _those people'_ are either _long dead_ or _wishing_ they were." She replies bitterly. "You've seen the constant executions on the holo. Even if you were somehow _still alive_ in a camp somewhere, stacking the arena with you and twenty-odd other sacks of skin and bones wouldn't be ideal Games to watch. We may be older, but we're not useless. Shouldn't we _try_ and do something?"

I shrug. "Do _what_? Okay, we may be _somewhat_ functional, but we're not sure as hell not on par with every other tribute in this room."

"You said it yourself yesterday, where would _you_ be if _we_ weren't here with you?" Hermia snaps back. "Like I just said, we may not be the strongest, but with three likeminded people, maybe _just maybe_ , we can work towards _something_."

"She has a point..." Verona chimes in, sighing. "As much as I hate this city and _everything_ it stands for. We can't just go with the motions, lest _they_ paint the picture."

"Listen...I'm the first guy to get up and go without a set plan in mind but..." Before I could get another word in, Hermia is already making her way towards the various stacks of weapons. "Rhodes, where are you going!?"

"C'mon Tobi," groans Verona, clasping my hand as she tugs me to my feet. "Were we really planning on sitting down all three days? What would you do for the private session, just sit there?"

With an impish smile I reply, "...Basically."


	24. Training Day Two

_**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games  
** **Training Day Two**_

* * *

 ** _Veradisia Annora Smith, 19  
District 12 Female_**

"How goes training, Vera?" asks Francine. "I would've asked yesterday, but I've been so bogged down with sponsors. They say that so many sponsors are the norm, but with Twelve's case, anything more than one is _too much_ to bear!"

Glancing up from my porridge, I focus my eyes on our despondent mentor, Ainsely. Her eyes bulging with fear as she takes a skittish bite of her apple. To my left, my district partner Kaviraya absentmindedly slathers jam onto his toast. My heart yearns for him.

"Training goes well...surprisingly." I reply brightly. I reach for the bowl of brown sugar, only to be startled as an Avox quickly does it for me. I tell her one spoon is good enough. "I guess because of the 'newness' of it all, I didn't garner unnecessary attention...Erm...Did they do overnight maintenance or something?"

They must've made _some_ changes...all the furniture in the room last night was predominantly white, which contrasts with the orange wallpaper. Most of the furniture now was brown – _wood_. Even Kaviraya glances around, sharing my confusion.

"I suppose they did." Francine answers, her eyes squinting as she too notices the change. "Although personally I preferred the white décor as it is much more _modern_ and _chic_."

I nod. "Right..."

"What of the Careers?" Francine asks.

"Besides a few leers...nothing." I reply. Although something tells me I will have their full attention soon enough. Reaching for the apple juice, I gently stop the Avox who makes a move to help me. This garners a peculiar stare from Francine, which prompts me to inwardly smirk.

"...That's _good_. Thank the Gods this isn't a regular year, they would be very cross with you." Francine chimes, turning to Ainsely when she says, "Isn't that good Ainsley?"

My mentor's mud brown eyes still as they land on me. "Don't try it."

Patting my lips with a napkin, I inquire, "Don't try _what_?"

"Ains, did you take your happy pills this morning...?"

" _Don't try it._ Whatever you're planning, don't try it. You have to take into account lives other than your own now."

"I haven't the slightest clue what you're talking about Ainsely, honestly." I reply with a shake of the head.

"I'm sorry guys. Ainsley was never a morning person." Francine coos softly, placing her hands around a stubborn Ainsely who fails to shrug her off. "You two go keep on keeping on, while we monitor your sponsors!"

"Don't be sorry!" I call out, watching as Francine coaxes Ainsely into a room. _Our mentor should be the one that's sorry, sorry that she's lost the will to persist._

...

After spending nearly all of yesterday with the rapier and knives, I've decided to try my hand in trapping...with less than stellar results.

 _"Does trapping really matter in comparison to the basics?"_ said Aspen during one of our many prep sessions. _"Just look at the recent Games. All that matters is food, a decent weapon and a good head on your shoulders."_

That might be true, my friend, but it doesn't hurt to be a jack of all trades, _especially_ in the Hunger Games. You never know what skills one needs in their desperate hour.

"I think you're doing it wrong."

"I'm sorry?" I reply confusingly, glancing upward and gasping at the woman who joins me on her knees.

"You're doing it _wrong_." Alana _freaking_ Oskoii repeats to me as she inches forward, replacing my rope with a cord of sorts. I can't help but gawk like an idiot.

"I prefer something like a bungee cord." She says. "It gives the trap that extra _oomph-"_ Using a knife, she releases the trap – an axe attached to cord in a 'crevice – as the axe spins horizontally and deeply lodges itself into the leg of the dummy set up in-between.

 _The Alana Oskoii_ just helped me set a trap! If I could see myself, there would be _stars_ in my eyes.

" _Thank_ you, thank you _so_ much." I say, pumping her hand with mine.

I receive a warm smile in return. "No problem, though I imagine something else is making you more excited?"

"Yes, of course! I'm Vera Smith, District 12. I just wanted to let you know that you're a hero to me and women across the nation."

"So I'm told, so I'm told...although I'm hearing similar rumblings about you, missy."

"I too am aware, although my newfound attention is _nothing_ compared to yours." I gush, removing a stray strand of white hair from my vision. "I wish that our meeting could've taken place in a better setting...How are you feeling?"

* * *

 ** _Alana Oskoii, 56  
District 8 Female_**

This young lady gushing over me brings back some clarity, which is wonderful given all this drama and uncertainty as of current. For the first time in days, I find myself with a genuine smile on my lips, not the forced grin I find myself plastering on for the press or District Eight's team.

As pleasant as it is, it's still not enough to dull the overall situation we find ourselves in. My smile falters, and I sigh deeply.

"Things could be better Vera, far, _far_ better..." I answer bitterly. "Why me, hm? Just as things were starting to take off, I get reaped-"

" _Selected_."

"What?"

"You were _selected_ , let's not be coy." Says Vera, a light chuckle in her tone as she rises to her feet and looms over me, her awestruck features seem to be replaced with a steely mask. "Like lightning in a bottle, women across the nation flock to your book like they did Marcia Quimby's erotica. Except this time, you offered us a chance to _think_ instead engage of mindless pleasure..." Vera's face grows hot, smirking when she murmurs, "Not that we don't need that sometimes...but given our current state, it's something _they_ can ill afford."

"I'm not sure if I follow..." I reply wearily, not liking what I'm hearing at all. "I-I was _reaped_. I guess I was unlucky, _terribly_ unlucky."

Vera shakes her head. " _Think about it, Ms. Oskoii._ Think about the overall themes you wanted represented. Besides anomalies like President DeWynter or...Marceline Devereaux, when have you ever seen women like you and me in power or doing our _own_ thing?"

I take a chance now to glance around the gymnasium. We _are_ gaining a couple of eyes here and there, most noticeably the Head Gamemaker, Pearlana Singh, and her pals up in their private balcony. I can bet Snow's last rose that we're being listened to, which only prompts me to jostle my head in halfhearted agreement.

" _Exactly_. Thankfully my situation was different, but like you, I'd also be married off so I can pop out children for the ' _betterment'_ of our nation. I could chatter about this until the end of the world but..." Vera takes a deep breath, and then exhales. "Ms. Oskoii. I am planning on undertaking a strenuous task and I need your help..."

"What 'strenuous task'...?" I ask her.

With a quick, yet weary glance around, she moves toward my ear and explains in detail her 'task'. As she goes on and on, I can't help but let out a dismissive scoff. Many if not _all_ of my generation have learned to never, _ever_ look at optimism the same again.

After what went down, we are permanently 'glass half empty' people, and for _good_ reason.

"Ms. Oskoii?" Vera calls, jostling my shoulder. "I'd love your thoughts on the matter?"

"You're nuts." I tell her finally, as the two of us rise to our feet. "You _don't_ understand...I'm from District _8,_ we know up _close and personal_ what defeat tastes like. If you try something, you don't know-"

"No, I don't know." Vera interjects, nodding. "But looking around, something tells me it wouldn't hurt to try. Strike when the iron is hot, so to speak."

"Why do you trust me with this information?" I ask her.

She clutches my hands in hers, a heartfelt smile on her lips when she says, "Ms Oskoii, like it or not, you've added colour to the drab world in which Panem's women exist. Ask yourself, why _you_? And besides...I wouldn't want to be the one responsible for killing off Panem's hottest author?"

Releasing my hands, she directs her vision toward the weights, where some of the males congregate.

"I have some others I wanted to proposition." She says while her eyes still focused on the males. "I want you to genuinely consider what I just said to you. I would _really_ appreciate someone like you by my side. Take it easy."

And with that, she's gone, leaving a very confused me behind. Obviously my reaping was just that – a reaping. I was just unlucky. If I were targeted, they wouldn't allow me to speak to lawyers and Ayn, right? What 'dangerous' ideas did I present? Since when is promoting the free will of women problematic? It's just _one book_ at the end of the day...

Is one book centered on one supposed ' _problematic'_ message enough to land me _here_?

* * *

 ** _Warren Holt, 19  
District 4 Male_**

I push off from the pillar I was lounging on, placing a gentle hand on Ms. Oskoii's shoulder who regards me with a startled expression.

"I wouldn't follow in her footsteps miss." I tell her, patting her shoulder. Shooting her a wink, I say, " _'Misery loves company'_ , so they say."

Casually, I trail the path which our crafty District 12 female made toward the weights. All nonchalant-like I take position on a rowing machine, watching as she casually takes up a spot _near_ , but not _right next_ to, the other black sheep this year – Ricardo Marcenas of Snow Island. Besides the occasional glance, the two said nothing. As she began to exercise, the older Snow Island male began to take interest.

"For a young lady, you surely know how to carry yourself." He marveled with a smile.

"Thank you. I have the mines to thank for my nominal skills at weightlifting." Twelve replies with a smile. As I begin to gently row, I can't help but roll my eyes.

"Ricardo Marcenas, Snow Island. Your volunteering was surprising, yet... _touching_ at the same time."

"Veradisia Annora Smith – but _please_ call me _Vera_ – charmed to meet you." She replies with a toothy grin. "I've heard a little about you already, _Captain."_

"Is that so?"

"There are a lot of emigrants living in Twelve. They bring with them interesting stories that make your heart warm with nostalgia for a place one hasn't even graced."

A sly smile spreads on his lips. "Snow Island is _filled_ with stories, mi amigo."

"I've been anticipating your meeting me." Ricardo says after a moment's silence.

"Is that so? I guess the passing glances were big enough of a hint."

"I'm curious as to why you wanted to speak with me."

"Well, Captain. I am planning on undertaking a strenuous task and I need your help..." Vera begins, just as she did with Ms. Oskoii. "And judging by your... _demeanor_...these past couple of days, you would serve as amazing help in seeing this task through."

"Is that so...?" Ricardo muses with a cocked eyebrow, "Please Miss, explain further..."

All pretenses are immediately dropped as the two begin conversing in hushed tones. Just as Ricardo grins widely and nods, I plop myself down on the seat of the closest weight machine.

" _Well, well, well_...would you look at this," I gib, shooting each of them an overly sweet smile. "Day two of training and conspiracies are already afoot!"

"Excuse me, I-?"

"Oh please, cut the crap Twelve." I interject with a dismissive wave. "Boy...I _don't_ know what is up with you Twelvers sometimes. Must be something in the water..."

"Erm, listen kid..."

"I don't wanna hear it _muscles_. I'm onto your little... _operation_ you got going on here." I snip, wagging a finger to the both of them. "I'm just letting you two know that it'll be nipped at the bud as soon as the gong goes off-"

The gargantuan * _thud*_ that results from a weight hitting the ground is enough for me, and other tributes to spin toward the Seven male, _Chris,_ the ignorant oaf, who makes no show of apology. Surely, there are other ways of getting people's attention...I don't put it past him for him to _know._

"Listen _Fou_ _r._ " He says, "I think I speak for everyone in the area when I say that I'm trying to train here. So, if you could keep your prattling to yourself?"

"Listen... _Chris –_ I _love_ that name by the way, so unique – my matter here doesn't _concern_ you."

"Well it does me," bellows a female Peacekeeper, beside her another female trainer. "Is there a problem, _tr_ _ibute?"_

"No ma'am, none at all." I reply sweetly, my smile quickly melting into a scowl as I regard Vera and muscles over her shoulder. "I was just putting some of my competition on notice, is all?"

"Yeah, well leave it until the interviews or better yet, the _Games themselves_." She mutters with an annoyed glower.

I send a playful salute her way. "Of course ma'am, that was _exactly_ what I was saying before they decided to act out."

With a bored expression on her mug, she says, "Right...go on about your day, then."

Pivoting on my heels, I make my way towards the rest of the pack, who has taken up temporary residence at the camping section. Solomon and Sarissa surprisingly take to this area well, painting their faces with an intricate camouflage.

"Those people have no idea who they're up against, really and truly." I report, halting mid stride as I jut a thumb to where I was prior. "You guys should've been there..."

Upon seeing me however, the three of them regard me with icy glares. What's their deal? " _What?"_

Solomon taps Thames, who moves to join Sarissa, switching places with him at the bench. "You ought to curb that enthusiasm of yours." He says.

"Huh...?" I splutter confusingly with squinted eyes. "What do you mean _'curb my enthusiasm'_? We're _Careers_. If you ask me, we're on top of the world."

Solomon shakes his head. "I don't know if you've noticed Holt, but this isn't like other years. We're dealing with _adults,_ desperate yet determined ones at that. All it takes from them is one moment of clarity to screw up our chances."

I find myself sparing a glance toward the other side of the room. As I do this, numerous heads return back to the activities they were tending to.

"And besides..." he continues, a rare smile emerging from his lips. "You have _us_ to deal with too."

 ** _Chris Samera, 36  
District 7 Male _**

I cast one last glance toward the kid from Four before sighing deeply. After all these years, I _still_ don't know how they manage to warp these kids so easily. Although something tells me he'll get his reality check just like the rest of us will.

"Thank you."

"Excuse me?" I say, turning around to meet the deep blue eyes of the Twelve girl. She's an odd little thing, with ghostly white skin and equally as white hair. Yet despite her quirks, she stands toe-to-toe with me. I guess being a volunteer from _Twelve_ of all places, you'd have to have the 'balls' to carry yourself the way you do.

She extends a hand forward, grinning warmly. "Thank you for your intervention Mister..."

"Erm...Chris," I reply hesitantly, thinking about how in a couple of days, I could have my hands around her throat or vice versa. I quickly shut out the thought. Until that time comes I'm retaining my humanity. "Chris Samara. And it's no problem...I was just thinking about how they can go around all willy-nilly as if twenty-five of us won't be _alive_ by the end of this."

"That's one hundred years of conditioning for you." She quips with a wink. "I'm Vera. If you're interested I could share with you my proposition?"

I'm quick to shake my head. I've heard many a story about persons who carry her type of determination...it's best to stay away and watch the fireworks from afar. "I'm fine, thank you. Good luck out there."

If she's disappointed, she makes no show of it as she nods once and maintains her grin. "That's quite okay, Mr. Samara. I wish you luck as well."

Placing the weight back on its stand, I find myself scanning the gym in its entirety. If there's one thing she's right about, it's making alliances. Something tells me you'd want someone _real_ close to you this time around. There are plenty of tributes to choose from, but who? I quickly make my decision, striding toward the wilderness survival section to meet him. It's here where he ponders over something on his arm.

I tap his shoulder. "Hey there Eight, how are ya?"

" _Huh_? Oh, um..." The District 8 Male, Russett, is quick to shroud a bracelet with the words " _Daddy_ " spelt out, into his sleeve.

"Up, _bup bup,_ you wear that bracelet proudly, District 8." I goad, gently clapping him on the shoulder. "How old is she? I'm Chris by the way."

"Russett, Russett Gilmour. She's uh... _three."_ he replies with a sad smile.

"Get outta here, mines four now." I reply, sighing while taking a seat next to him. "Yep...they're all about the arts and crafts now. Maybe the girls more than the boys, all mine wants to do is get out there."

He nods, his eyes never leaving the bracelet on his hand. "These are pivotal years for them."

"Yeah..." I exhale, visions of a hyperactive Patrick running up and down the house playing through my head. "Pretty important years for sure..."

After a minutes silence, I go ahead and come out with it.

"Listen, Russett..." I begin, running a hand through my hair. "I was wondering if you wanted to partner up with me. You seemed pretty interesting, so I thought I'd come over and introduce..."

"I don't think I'm up for it, this whole alliance thing." He replies. "Something tells me things are going to be ugly this year. How the hell are we supposed to go back to our lives and face the families of the fallen? I'd rather keep my distance."

I nod. "I understand where you're comin' from wholeheartedly. I'm still grapplin' with that myself."

I'm surprised to see him extending a hand forward. "Thanks for coming to see me regardless. Whatever happens out there, I mean no ill will."

"Likewise."

Rising to his feet, he starts toward the weapons. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to go work on some weapons again. Here's hoping there are plenty of rations in the arena, because this city kid can't tell an _apple_ from a _cherry_."

"Yup, good luck." I say, my tone deflated. At least he has his head screwed on straight. If he and I are basically cut from the same cloth, how relatable am I to everyone else in here? Mothers, fathers and brothers tossed into this mess...

"Hola?"

"Say what now?" perplexed, I glance upward to find myself staring at Snow Island's female tribute. Typical to that part of Panem, she too despite her age, seem to carry a natural attractiveness to them.

"Hola!" she greets again, pumping my arm before I could even collect a thought. "I'm Donna, but you call me Ludra. What's your name?"

"I'm Chris, nice to meet you."

"That's nice. You're from Seven, si?"

I point to the armband bearing our seal. "Yep, a Sevener I am."

"You know anything about food?" she asks.

"I've been camping here and there...but I bet you could show me a thing or two more?" I reply playfully, twisting my hand in a so-so motion.

"If you don't mind me accompanying you?" she says in an equally as playful tone, her smile bright.

"Of course not," I say, smiling as I gesture towards the various meats, plants and spices laid across the table " _Please_ , lead the way."

* * *

 ** _Kaviraya Parathi  
District 12 Male _**

"Good work tribute," the trainer says, nodding as he reviews my work. The rucksack at my feet, prior to my intervention, was a _mess_ to behold. A good ten minutes was all that was needed to get the pack neatly organized with plenty of room to spare.

"Thank you." I tell him, collecting the rucksack and securing it around my shoulders. It was _comfortable_ surprisingly. "I guess my skills in the office have weight in the Games after all."

"I suppose they do." he says, nodding in agreement. "You assemble a tent well, your plant identification is passable and your other bushcraft would make for a comfortable time depending on the arena. However...I think it is about time you head over to the weaponry."

"Th-the _weapons_?" I blabber, my head craning over to the other end of the room. The District 1 male, Thames, armed with a katana, immediately goes to work on a gel dummy when his trainer gives the signal. With gentle maneuvering of his hands, each of the dummy's limbs including its _head_ tumble to the floor in a bloody pulp. Amazed, the trainer makes a sign of approval as Thames offers a playful bow.

I'm on the other side of the gymnasium entirely yet the clanging and chatter of the tributes and trainers over there are already starting to give me a _migraine_. Surely we can train at night right, better than sharing the space with these people.

"Yes tribute, the weapons." The trainer replies dryly, as if he's heard reactions like mines a million times before. "I am telling you from now, things will get a _million_ times more difficult. Unless you have the luck of Finch Emerson or Piper Malveaux, you are going to need to be proficient with a weapon."

"I see..." I say aloud, sighing as I lick my lips and discard the rucksack. "If you would excuse me, I have some weapons to get acquainted with."

My lips pursed and my hands bunched at my sides, I march over towards the wall of weaponry while being greeted by a burly trainer.

"So you have finally decided to play with the _real_ toys." He chides in his Capitol accent. His effimate voice doesn't match well with his physique. "Chose a weapon, any weapon, and we will have you decently prepared depending on the effort you put in."

Slowly my eyes scan the entirety of the wide wall, gliding over the knives, swords, spears and maces mounted on it, squinting as a scythe shines in the light. Towards the other end of the wall are various guns as well.

"You have a vast display here..." I say with a hesitant chuckle.

His muscles bunched around his folded arms, he snorts. "Tell me about it. Some are factory made, while others are sourced from various tribes we come in contact with. In some places, guns are a _priceless_ commodity, so they get real _medieval_ -like. Uncivilized yeah, but one has to do what they have to to survive...like you will be doing!"

"Of course..." I reply fretfully, hissing as he claps me on the back with a hearty chuckle.

"So, what's that weapon of choice of yours?"

I point a tentative finger toward a hatchet which happened to be at the centre of the wall. A black handle and a "B" shaped blade, it looked easy enough to use...

The trainer nods, seemingly agreeing with my choice. "Great choice tribute, it has been quite a while since I've seen one like that in use..."

He motions for me to follow, and I do, watching as he wheels out a gel torso and places it in front of me. In his hand is a hatchet identical to mine.

"Alright, I've think you and I have watched enough Games in our lives for you to give a single downward chop." Using his axe, he traces a circle over the left side of the torso. "Chop toward the chest preferably, right over the heart."

"Right over the heart you say..." I repeat and with a roll of my shoulders, I do as he asks and slam my hatchet into the dummy's chest. Although, getting the hatchet out of its chest proved harder. Its blood began to pool out the wound and with each desperate tug, _more_ blood poured out.

"Imagine if there were multiple threats, like in a bloodbath. You would be dead _with_ your target." The trainer comments as he marches over and easily tugs my hatchet out. His eyes not leaving mine, he quickly slams the hatchet back into the dummies chest and retracts it just as fast, prompting blood to splatter on the both of us.

Where I revile in the stuff soiling my face and uniform, he makes no move to clean himself.

"We are not dealing with a full blown axe here. It is a hatchet. Your blows should be quick – in and out – got it?"

"Excuse me if I'm not wholly accustomed to _maiming_ other people." I mutter, clearing my face of the 'blood'. The past few days have been a blurr. I'm working on _autopilot_ here. How does one leap off the pedestal with the intent to kill another human being so quickly? Why hasn't the nation turned upside-down quicker? Why me, why am I here? Out of all the people in our _Snowforsaken_ district they could've chosen.

"Word of advice tribute, get out of your own head and _do_ what is required." The trainer scowls. "Rarely if ever do basketcases leave the arena alive."

"It's not like I have much to live for anyway."

" _Bullshit_ , I've heard your story on the news. You work for the local government, no? You even got a cushy promotion too, which means you're stellar at what you do."

"Yeah..."

"Would you not rather be _there_ than _here_?" he asks.

"Of course-"

"Then do what you need to do _here_ , so you can go back _there_ and live in peace. Put that brain of yours to work." He juts a finger behind him. "She's quite the propellerhead too, but at least she knows what's at stake."

Peering over his shoulder, I watch as the woman from District 5 uses a knife with terrifying effectiveness, painting the whole of the dummy's midsection she was practicing on red with blood.

I gently caress the hatchet in my hand as the trainer presses it there. He has a point. It's all about self-preservation after all. And if I won't attempt to do it, then who will? If only it were as easy as he makes it out to be.

* * *

 ** _Emmanuel Cade 22  
District 10 Male_**

"Mmm..." mews Laelia, nodding as she hands the flask back to me. "Your tea is _maravilloso_. Who knew berries would enhance the flavor so much."

"It was my mother who introduced me to this concoction. Apparently when she was with me, _this_ was her water substitute for a couple of months."

"Is that so? What a nice craving to have. If someone had a cup of _this_ in the arena every day, they'd float through without a care in the world. Like who cares about food shortage or _man-eating_ muttations when you have a cup of this stuff."

"Well, if my normal early mornings are any indication, I'd imagine I would fair pretty well, depending on the conditions." I tell her, earning a hum of approval from my younger district partner.

"How are you finding things?" I ask her.

With a frown, Laelia shrugs. "I'm just taking it as it goes I guess. At least I have an ally to help me out - hey, Maia! Are you okay?"

The girl from District 3 barely glances away from the vintage Games footage she watches as she waves Laelia off dismissively. Whereas I quirk a brow with concern, Laelia smiles as if nothing was amiss. "She seems...distant." I say pointedly.

 _Obviously_ , given the circumstances we find ourselves in. If anything, she's already ahead of the Game.

"She's pretty cool. She's really big on the survival aspect. As for me, I'm pretty set on this cool combat shovel I found. Here's hoping they add it in the arena."

"What about when the Games _actually_ start. Do you have a plan?"

"I don't know, does _anyone_?" Laelia replies with a grumble." Maia has me and I have her, we'll protect each other. What about _you?"_

"Me?"

"Yeah, _you._ " Laelia shoots back with a twinge of playfulness. "What's _your_ plan? Ever since we began, all you've done is sulk on this tree for two days."

"I was taught that before a hunter makes his move, he should _observe_ his target." I reply, my eyes not leaving the entirety of the gymnasium.

"Oh yeah, tell me something about the other tributes that we _don't_ know from the news."

"Very well..." I nod off toward the plant identification station, as the Eleven female sorts plants on screen without skipping a beat. "She hasn't touched a weapon since we've got here. Although if the arena were a giant garden, she'd have us all beat. She's definitely a brain of sorts."

I point toward the Careers, who casually lounge at tables and chat among themselves. "Obviously, they're prepared as they can be. They may've aged out of the reaping pool, but they kept at it." I then focus my hand toward the Four male. "He's the youngest, no different than an eighteen year old. His braggadocious attitude is amplified because he knows he has it _made_. Take the older Careers away from the equation, however..."

I nod and point towards the Twelve girl, who while continuing to train with a sword, offers skittish glances toward the table of the older tributes. "She's definitely the black sheep this year. Truth be told, I wish her well in all her endeavors."

"What _'endeavors'_ are those?" Laelia asks with a smile.

I return her smile. "She's from _District 12_ , probably nothing good."

"And what about me, what's your read on me?" she inquires, her eyes not leaving me.

Offering my district partner a pensive glance, I finally say "You, well you're like most if not all people who find themselves in the Games, an innocent bystander trying to make their way through."

And with that the lunch bell sounds, prompting all training to cease as groups of tributes slowly make their way toward the cafeteria. I casually drop to the floor, slowly rising to my feet on bent knees while Laelia prefers a more cautious approach as she slides down the base of the trunk. Her ally, Maia, is already making her away over.

"You can partner up with us, you know." She says, while we begin walking. "It's a Quarter Quell, the more noticeable you are, the better."

Hands in my pockets, I shrug. Truth be told, I would prefer that she _wasn't_ here with me now, instead off with her newfound ally continuing on with her training elsewhere. It was the 'district partner' effect topped off with the fact that she was a _nice_ girl who cares less about my prickly exterior, why she was here right now. She reminded me of Damaris, dutiful to me even when I wanted her gone at times. It's all the more reason I wish she'd go. I would function a lot better if I didn't have her wellbeing on my conscious.

* * *

 ** _Zahira Kazimirova, 36  
District 6 Female_**

"A couple days in, I still can't believe I'm here." Taking off my cat eye glasses, I turn to Theilian. "This is _real_ right?"

My district partner sighs. " _Unfortunately_...let's just eat and get back into it."

The cafeteria was the bipolar opposite of the brutalist, concrete pavilion that was the gymnasium. Like that weird 'VR Room', the cafeteria was divided from the rest of the gym by wide panel glass. Inside was a lavish dining room made out of stone and walnut wood. After selecting our just as lavish food, we settle into a booth.

"You don't mind if I join you two, right?" she asks with a beaming smile.

"Yeah, a little bit." I mutter, sipping my drink. Thankfully we're sitting at the far end of the room, away from most prying eyes. If not, we'd be another target. On the holo she's the talk of the town. Her volunteering seems so straightforward, yet so _sketchy_ at the same time. Any tribute with sense has learned to avoid Twelve like the plague.

" _Zahira_ , be nice." Theilian chides. "This is a learning experience for everyone involved. How are we supposed to make connections if we block people out?"

"How are we supposed to _kill_ them if we connect with too many of them?" I retort back.

Veradisia's face is a blank slate, her eyes darting to and fro before settling on Thelian's. "I saw your reaping the other day. I can't say I saw any prior reaping in which a tribute acted so valiantly...well, maybe _one_."

"What can I say?" Theilian replies with a shrug and soft smile. "Most of my life has been in service to my district. I didn't want things to devolve anymore than they should have."

"Perhaps if you two joined me, maybe we could _amplify_ that service." It takes a split second for her to hesitantly add "So _everyone_ could be proud of you?"

"Sounds like _code_ to me." I challenge. " _No thanks_ , he's not interested in whatever you're peddling."

If she's peeved by my quip she makes no show of it, her lips a thin line as she turns toward Thelian. "You not so much, but I assume Mr. Caldron can think for himself?"

Thelian looks to me, but my steel gaze is enough for him to turn back and frown. "Zahira and I have a thing going on so unfortunately, no..."

"Hmph, that's rather unfortunate." Veradisia replies, her face blank as she gathers her plate and rises to her feet. "Good luck out there, really and truly."

Besides the strained looks Thelian and I exchange, the rest of our lunch is silent.

...

"The Seven guy, the boy from Five..." Thelian drabbles on. "You can't just push away _every_ potential alliance, Zahira."

"Of course I can!" I snort, sliding to the next page of plant identification on the datapad in my hand. "I'm not getting screwed over because I opened my heart to some stranger who owes me _squat_."

"It's the Hunger Games, trial and error are a _big_ part of it." He says tiredly.

"Not if _I_ have anything to say about it." I bite back with an airy guffaw. Like I said, I owe these people nothing, just as _they_ owe me nothing."

A ragged sigh escapes from his lips. "I-"

Thelian is interrupted by a loud sound...a scratching sound? Just as I glance up, Vi, decked out in winter gear and _skates_ performs a pirouette mid-air, landing as if she were on ice. But there was no _fucking_ ice!

"I for one enjoy this, don't you my dear colleague?" asks Vi.

Skating after her, Pax casually sips a hot beverage. "Easy for you to say...it's not like we can _feel_ it!"

Glancing around the gym, I adjust my eyeglasses. "It's red today..."

Thelian turns to me. "Sorry?"

"It's red today, the gym." I say pointing to the lights and accents. "Yesterday it was all blue. Our apartment changed up too..."

" _Heh_...those two are _always_ up to something." He answers with a small shake of the head. "How about we focus on something we can actually control, like _allies?"_

I place the datapad back in its charging bank, crossing my arms. "...Fine."

" _Lovely_." Thelian approves, gesturing his arms to the entirety of the gym. "Who do _you_ think we should proposition?"

Scanning the entirety of the room, my eyes focus on one of the two people that have caught my eye. "I see someone."

Ever since the reaping recaps, Tuesday Suetos was one of the only names that stuck with me, besides Twelve of course. There was constant talk about there being an abundance of doctors this time around. Sure, we might all practice different trades, but to not take up the opportunity and unite would be _stupid_.

"Tuesday Suetos?" I ask while glancing down at the gurney she lays on.

"I am she." She answers without skipping a beat, never taking her eyes off the task at hand. She's wearing a 'flesh apron' of sorts. Armed with medical utensils in either hand, she's deftly at work nursing a deep gash on her 'stomach'. She's earned the intrigue of numerous trainers, including the Careers who watch on a few feet away.

It's best to make this quick. "You know who I am, right?"

"Of course, you're Doctor Zahira Kazimirova - a general practitioner." She replies, gesturing towards Thelian. "And your friend is a psychiatrist."

I shift my weight from one foot to the next. Respect has always been a high virtue in my family – a cultural thing passed down from generation to generation. The way she continues about her work without casting us a single glance since we approached her and that _robotic_ tone of hers _screams_ disrespect.

Then again, it's not like we're _owed_ anything.

Thelian notices my response to her...bluntness, putting a gentle hand on my chest as he pushes past and steps forward. "So you know why we're here, right? Imagine the headlines – _"An alliance of doctors taking on the arena together"._ We'd be the most talked about thing, which wouldn't hurt."

"On the contrary, I imagine it would hurt _quite a lot_."

"How so?"

A sharp sigh escapes my lips. " _Oh brother...why do I even bother_?"

"As nice as your proposal may be, I believe it's best to take the gray man approach this year. I will consider your proposal, but as much as I enjoy my job, I prefer mending meat back together in the confines of my operating room, _not_ a Hunger Games arena." She gestures to the apron she wears. "Taking care of one hunk of meat is plenty enough, as you can see."

 _What?_ Is she _hearing_ herself talk?

"Erm...okay...?" Thelian tentatively replies with a scratch of his head. Without a care, I begin to tug my district partner away. It's not like Suetos cared, as she continued to focus on her task. "Well, if you wanna solidify things, just give us a shout!"

"She's an interesting character." he says with a chuckle when we fall out of an earshot. "Should we go talk to the other one, or...?"

I cast a glance toward the other tribute in mind. She wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. " _No._ we'll worry about it _tomorrow_."

"Well, here's hoping they're more open to it."

Having enough for one day, I simply shrug. "Honestly, I don't care either way. Two is _more_ than enough."

Looking around the gym, most of the districts are already divided in terms of one partner leaving for another group. As long as Thelian and I are together, the higher the chance of _one_ of us making it through. Any extras are just a plus.


	25. Training Day Three - Part One

_**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **Training Day Three - Part One**_

* * *

 **Lars Malatic, 36**  
 **District 9 Male**

" _Again?_ " Hermia remarks, her eyes wandering throughout the whole of the apartment. The first day of training, the place was blue and gold, yesterday it was pink and brown. Today we were treated to a yellow theme. Everything from the sofas to the glass cups. "Heh...I was just getting used to the old scheme."

I grunt, settling onto a dining room chair while glancing at the various Avoxes preparing the table for breakfast. "And me? Well, I feel sorry for these guys having t'lug shit around all night..."

As the telltale giddy chatter of Sindy Wellington could be heard from down the hall, Hermia nudges my shoulder. "Twenty bucks says that the young lady has a flurry over the new look."

Unfortunately for Hermia, I haven't a twenty to give. Her eyes as wide as saucers, Sindy breaths out an airy exclaim when she enters. " _Wowee_ , this is by far the most _smashing_ showcase they've displayed!"

"I agree." Hermia replies dryly, her eyes rolling while taking a sip of coffee served by an Avox. "The yellow really brings out the... _'happiness'_ in here."

Poor Sindy, her heart bigger than her brain, smiles brightly while nodding in agreement. "I agree one hundred percent Ms. Rhodes! I should speak to the ministry to have it kept this way."

"You do that." I hear Hermia say, instead focusing on our mentor Elizabeth, who was less than enthused about the sudden change once again, slipping into the seat next to me.

"It obviously has something to do with the Games." She says, glancing around.

"But _what_ is what I wanna know." I reply. "With how conniving those Gamemakers are, that 'something' could be _anything_."

"Which is why I want you two to shut off your brains and let _me_ worry about that."Elizabeth nods as if I correctly answered a golden question. "It's day three, the last day. How are you feeling?"

"... _Good._ " I answer with a firm nod. All things considered, I was doing _good_. Where others were stretching their necks out too far, or outright refusing to play along, I was a grey man, just going through the motions.

Until I absolutely have to stand out, that's how it'll stay.

...

Being a Niner, a city-dweller one at that who barely started high school only to leave, you learn a whole lot about the land to scrape along in an arena before you even get to the ninth grade. So while everyone crowds around the various workstations relating to survival I return back to the weapons portion of the gym, the area where I spent the majority of my time. I dunno, something tells me, I'm gonna wanna know how to use a blade like I use my hand. Two Peacekeepers, a man and woman by the names of Mynarski and Hua, have been showing me the ropes since we've started. After years of evading them and being under their thumb, who knew I'd be on cordial terms with _PKs._

Hua leans against a pillar. "Guess who's back."

"Here for one last day of lessons, Malatic?" Asks the male Peacekeeper.

"Yep."

"Are you going for the lone wolf approach, Malatic?" Asks Hua. "I haven't seen you interacting much."

I glance back toward the tables and just as I do this, multiple eyes turn back towards their tasks. My status as a convict still looms over me it seems, and hacking away at gel dummies and fending off two human targets at a time isn't doing me any favors either. "...'Pose so."

"That's alright. I imagine your stint behind bars will only make things easier in that regard."

I shrug, turning as I collect a practice machete from off the wall. Contrary to the solitary lifestyle that comes with drug running, and incarceration at that, I'm the sort who prefers having a collective of others to watch your back. I've seen their curious, lengthy glances. It's only a matter of time before a group pulls the trigger and asks. Turning back to the two trainers, I'm confused to see neither of them in the protective armor used for sparring. Instead they wear cheeky grins. "What's goin' on?"

"I hear you're pretty trusty with a machete, tribute." It's the Head Trainer, Claudia, dressed head to two in protective armor.

Sparing a glance toward the two trainers behind me, I offer a lopsided nod. "I know my way around a blade, yeah."

Striding towards the wall of practice blades, her back towards me, she draws one "So you don't mind if I serve as a final test of sorts?"

"I don't see why not?" I reply nonchalantly, giving Claudia a look over. Tall, brawny, the physical definition of a _Two,_ It'd just be like fighting their female representative, Sarissa. The perfect test if you asked me.

Without a word, we take our place on the sparring floor. I take up a defensive stance as Claudia lazily drags her blade against the floor. Just as it dragged against the floor, I find myself parrying the blow as she quickly slams it toward my head then again towards my neck.

"Lars Malatic, a jailbird from District 9..." Claudia muses from under her visor. "What brings you to my Training Center?"

"An opportunity." I reply, providing strikes of my own. I thrust forward, only for Claudia to sidestep and counter with a diagonal swing. We cancel each other out as I meet her halfway.

As we circle one another, she snorts. "Let me guess, an opportunity to die a free man?"

I knew the meaning behind her quip, but instead of replying verbally I offer a swing toward the thigh as she blocks and then a swing towards the head as she ducks. "Yeah exactly...in fifty years, give or take."

"Besides the likelihood of death, there _are no_ opportunities here, Malatic." Claudia replies casually.

"Heh, tell that to the women!" I quip back. A boot to my armored midsection still winds me, prompting me to stagger back a few feet.

"The opinions of vapid fangirls don't matter." She says with a snake of the head. "The Capitol don't look too kindly on _dissenters_ of any stripe."

I shake my head. "I'm _not_ a dissenter, not anymore."

"That' remains to be seen." She replies gratingly, catching my blade before it tore her shoulder pad. We're locked in now over a battle of leverage. "In my experience, it don't work like that, once a dissident, _always_ a dissident."

I find myself stumbling backwards as the floor below us begins to shake. In squares, the floor begins to elevate at various heights. Where I struggle to regain my footing, Claudia is the master of her domain, using her lower leveled foot to kick me in the groin. I recoil upward, but quickly duck as she swipes forward. The first swipe toward my left arm I block, but my machete tumbles out of my hand when I sloppily block her second attack towards my right.

"A prisoner to a victor..." chuckles the Head Trainer with a shake of the head, "What in _Snow's name_ makes you think you could bead those odds?!"

Just as she makes a plunge toward my protective chest piece, I clasp her blade hand mid-strike. A raised eyebrow seems to be Claudia's way of expressing shock. Before she could react proper, I fling the both of us off the platforms and onto solid ground as the machete tumbles out of her hand. Just as she scrambles to retrieve the lost weapon, I plant a boot on her back, collecting the machete in my free hand.

"I've always been dealt a shitty hand, Miss." I say, removing the boot from off her back and instead extending a hand forward. "What does the Hunger Games change, really?"

 **Thames Montgolia**  
 **District One Male**

"That settles it then!" I happily say aloud, smirking as my colleagues glance my way.

From our table, we watch as Head Trainer Claudia accepts Lars' hand while the two exchange nods. Since our meeting on day one – since Reaping Day night, really – I've kept a keen eye out for our 'Jailbird from District 9' as some Games junkies have been calling the stoic man. It's not often Careers recruit outside the One-Two-Four-Snow Island grouping, but when we do, the tribute in question carries the qualities we seek.

Warren seems to agree, rocking against the bench when he says "Him and the other woman would make neat additions to the team."

"I don't trust him, criminal _scum_." Sarissa remarks gruffly, her arms folded as she posts against a _pillar_ rather than sit at the _table_ like everyone else. "I didn't come all this way to wake up on the morning of day one with a _knife_ in my chest."

"C'mon Sarissa," A raised eyebrow and a scowl from Sarissa is enough to get Warren to raise his hands in false surrender. "He'll need _us_ more than anything."

"Warren's right," I reason, offering the Two female a smile. The smile grows even more as she frowns tentatively. Through her Two elitism, she knows we're right. "An outlier joining a Career pack is paying for the ride in full. Am I right, Solomon?"

I turn toward the Two male, who glances up from his datapad. If it weren't for the HV, I wouldn't know his name because the guy is as quiet as a _mouse_. We hold each other's gaze for a second as he shrugs when I offer a raised brow, prompting me to frown slightly. Two's are very asocial creatures aren't they?

" _Fine_ , even though numbers make no difference to me." grunts Sarissa as we watch her push off the pillar and walk toward Lars. "If he's a _fuckup_ , you're paying for it _with him_."

Grinning from ear to ear, I casually stroll by her side. "Okay but I'm warning you, your payment won't come easy... _Oh_ , and I appoint myself head of PR for this year's pack, so if you would allow me to do the talking? _Thanks_."

When we get to him, the man in question is taking a drink from a fountain. From the corner of his eye he spots us, prompting him to slowly turn around in surprise.

Warren snorts, raising his hands in surrender. " _Woah_ easy buddy, we're not on the clock _just yet_."

I make sure to step forward, grinning ear to ear as I extend my hand toward him. "We've been watching you...Lars is it?"

"The one and only," Lars replies wearily, glancing down at my hand before tentatively taking and pumping it once. I'm surprised that a man of his background carries himself as decently as he does. "So I've noticed."

"What can we say? For the past day or two, you've been putting on a good show. It's difficult _not_ to watch." "With that being said, I'll cut right to the chase. We think you have the chops, so we thought we would come over and extend a hand of invitation into this year's Career pack."

His face a blank slate, Lars shakes his head once. "Sorry pal, no sale."

Warren frowns, shaking his head as if he didn't hear the first time. " _No sale?_ You don't know a good deal when you see one."

"I'd rather not be that blockhead that you use as an extra body, kinda like the role you currently play, kid." The male from Nine explains gruffly, turning towards me. "I'm sure you understand."

My mood is _anything but_ peachy though I make sure it doesn't show. It comes with years of being a Montgolia during any social dealings gone sour. So instead, I offer a curt nod. _Never let your opponents see you break._

"I understand wholeheartedly." I reply with a sharp sigh, glaring toward Warren as he holds his tongue. I extend my hand forward again, to which Lars reciprocates as we pump hands once more. "Good luck. I'm sure you will serve as an exceptionable opponent during the Games."

Lars nods slowly, holding the eyes of Sarissa who looks less than enthused. "...Right."

What follows is an awkward shuffle towards the weapons. While doing this I make sure to hold my gaze toward the other tributes who watched the exchange, relishing as they quickly returned back to their activities.

"That was a _surprising_ conclusion." Quips Solomon, hands casually in his pockets as he deflects my glare towards him.

"I'd prefer to have him further than closer anyway, makes killing him all the better." Sarissa snorts. "I don't know why you _fools_ considered him in the first place."

"It doesn't _hurt_ to try and bolster our numbers. What's _wrong_ with you?" I explain defensively, my mask wearing thin with each of her impulsive outbursts.

"What's wrong with me is that I don't like being _embarrassed_." She counters. "Who needs more numbers anyway, unless you yourself are feeling _insecure_?"

"No one asked you to come? And wasn't it _you_ who began walking towards him?" Ignoring her last swipe, I motion to her and her equally dubious district partner. "Don't _you two_ have someone you're considering as well? If you don't approve of my way of handling it, go collect them _yourself_."

"Are you asking us, or _telling_ us?" Sarissa retorts back harshly. She's leaning against the table now, her face craned toward me while her hands clutch the sides.

"I can't believe you..." I grouse with a sigh.

"Asking, telling...they both mean the _same thing_." Warren chuckles, laying a hand on her shoulder only for her to swat it off.

"Actually," Solomon adds, his eyes glued back onto the datapad. " _'Asking'_ has more of a polite pejorative to it, while ' _telling'_..."

"Okay...yeah, I get it." Warren waves him off. "What I'm _saying_ is that we need to _relax_ now. Didn't you tell me that the other day, Solomon? ...Yeah, _exactly._ We're _Careers_ , we got this in the bag!"

"The use of ' _we'_ has a limited warranty, and it's comin' up soon." Swiping a lock of hair away from her face, Sarissa marches off elsewhere. "I'm goin' for a run."

From his peripherals, Solomon watches her only to put down the datapad and stalk off towards the weapons "I'm going to practice archery...and maybe I can pick up a new friend too."

" _Good_ , you guys do that." Warren says with a thumbs up, his voice wavering between cheer and weariness. He turns back to me now, offering a nod and a smile.

"I'm not sure I had to ever exercise so much patience in my life..." he says with a dry chuckle.

I return the gesture. Patience is a Montgolia virtue. She was right, Sarissa, about the security or lack thereof in regards to this alliance. As much sense as it makes to make like a tree and leave, it would be in all of our interest to stick it out. _Mine a lot more than theirs._

 **Solomon 'Sol' Kohli, 20**  
 **District Two Male**

Can't say I _don't_ have a lot of leeway.

Hands casually tucked in my pocket, I watch as Sarissa runs the obstacle gauntlet for what was the _third_ time since she declared she would do so. The girls from Three and Ten watch on with awe while the attention-seeker from Twelve does so with envy a distance away with the man from Isla Nieve. Belonging to a different militia unit, I never saw much of Sarissa Levesque. People said she was switched on – _most_ if not _all_ people in District Two are. But I didn't know she was a step above that, a step above the usual _prideful_ air, a step above the usual _hardheadedness_.

Locating the person in mind, I make my way towards the survival stations. Her...brusque personality, topped with our exceptionally small pack this year makes things easier in terms of unconventional play. Add the stress of the Games on top of that mini scrap and I'll be surprised that the alliance lasts three days, if I'm not already gone by then. I'd imagine having a doctor within our pack would help soothe the friction.

I glance toward the Sixes – both doctors – as the man watches the woman practice with a harpoon gun. A smirk from yours truly is all it takes for the man to quickly return his district partner, who glares at me, back to her task. We thought about them, though in the end we opted not to have two separate alliances operating as one.

I glance over toward the tables where a trainer nurses a sickly looking District 11 female. Sarissa thought her volunteering was akin to suicide. Judging by her mannerisms, she's right, which is a shame. It's not every day a doctor of science is reaped for the Hunger Games.

This leaves me with our person of interest, the District 5 female, who deftly dabbles with various chemicals which could then be used within the arena for a variety of purposes.

"Hello Doctor Suetos." I say, stopping to her side as she cranes over a workbench. I see her eye from her peripheral twitch my way.

"Solomon Kohli, the male representative for District 2..." the doctor drones, her eyes not leaving her work – a singular vial cooking over a Bunsen burner. "I would call you Sol, like your family and friends do, but our current situation doesn't call for such pleasantries."

Slightly surprised, I shift from one foot to the next. "I see you've been keeping tabs on me?"

"In our current situation, it wouldn't hurt to know every single applicable facet about my opponents."

Hands in my pocket, I offer a shrug. "That's fair. If anything, that's an unofficial golden rule right there."

"Mhm." She mutters, adding a drop of one substance into the main vial. She turns off the burner, directing her attention to a Petri dish filled with a pink, fleshy substance that was _bleeding_ in the middle. One drop of the vial substance and the 'flesh' slowly sutured itself together. " _Perfect_."

"You know why I'm here then," I say, attempting to ignore the display. "There's no need to be opponents...at least for now. Join us, we could use someone with your skill set and you'll have a quick ticket to the top ten without lifting a pinky."

"Thanks but no thanks, Solomon," Dr. Suetos says after a pointed stare and a couple seconds silence. "Patching up one piece of meat is enough for me, but having to worry about four others is a tad too much...especially with how _aggressive_ tributes like yourself tend to play."

"Right..." I reply flatly, pivoting on my heels. I don't bother voicing a goodbye as I make my way over towards the archery section. On the upper floor, Sarissa's eyes lock with mine as she sprints down the track. As soon as I shake my head in the negative, her eyes break contact while she sprints off.

I assume she's remised rather than angry. The quicker she gets to her supposed victory, the better, with or _without_ a pack to aid her there. Given how things are shaping up, we both seem to be in agreement in that regard.

Retrieving a bow from the container, I nod to the trainer who begins to set up some targets for me to shoot. I set my eye on a shooting target twenty feet up while I draw a bow from my quiver, aim, and fire as it sinks right into the bull's-eye. I can't help but smirk, for after days of mundane tribute-watching, it feels nice brush up a little.

I flinch when the shooting target right next to mine is pinned with an arrow, directly into _its_ bull's-eye.

Doubtful, I glance to my right to find the aloof boy from Ten returning the gesture. Ignoring the idiotic chortles of laughter from the watching trainers, I roll my eyes, setting up another shot for a target twenty feet beyond the first. I let the arrow fly, hitting the bull's-eye as _he_ does so too. Ignoring his smirk from my peripherals, I quickly focus on a moving shooting target coming in from the left. My arrow quickly finds its center.

A sharp intake of breath is all I allow myself to show as his arrow knocks mine out _completely_ , prompting the trainers to instigate with howls and laughter. And here I thought Indians shot morphling and stared at walls all day...

What follows is shooting in rapid succession, no targets were safe from my bolts, nor were his. We do this until three central targets remained. With my final three arrows, I load all three vertically and let them fly into the center target. One bolt for the head, one for the torso and one for the stomach. Wordlessly, besides a grin etched on my lips, I step back and watch as the boy from Ten moves forward.

Casually, he tips his bow horizontally and lets the arrows fly, each striking the throats of the three dummies.

The trainers are boisterous now, clapping and hollering as the boy turns my way to deposit his bow, pivot on his heel, and mosey off elsewhere.

And even though we trade smiles while he does this, there was absolutely _nothing_ friendly about the exchange.

* * *

 **Tuesday Suetos, 44**  
 **District 5 Female**

As the young man from Two saunters off towards the bows, I force myself to return to my work in an attempt to do away with any... _lingering doubts._ Like he said, joining the Careers is a golden opportunity for any non-Career to solidify their place as a potential winner if they play their cards right.

The urge to reconsider solidifies when I think back to HG 74 where the boy from Three got his neck wrung for his failure to protect the supplies. Numerous Games since then with similar situations begin to flood back to memory.

"It's not a loss Tuesday...your future self will salute you." I mutter to myself.

It's been seen time and time again, the trope of the somewhat useful non-Career being gifted the golden ticket into that year's Career Pack...only to be screwed over when they faced trouble, or the first to be killed off once the rest of the competition bit it. That _won't_ be me. Just because the arena is filled with adults doesn't mean convention will shift dramatically.

And besides, there's no room left for 'human' thought in the Games – ' _companionship'_. It isn't like back in Five, where I would _try_ to reach out to others, _try_ to feel.

A womanly shape approaches from behind the workbench I occupy. I don't bother glancing up.

"Good day, Doctor." She says to me. The female representing District 12 is an easy voice to register, filled with prim and proper mannerisms so unlike her region she comes from. "You are a tough woman to reason with, however with what I'm propos-"

"-Would still not be good enough to change my mind." I reply flatly. Removing my concoction from the Bunsen, I immediately place it on top of a bloodied forearm I salvaged from a dummy. Like a gum-filled loilipop, the laceration on the forearm was coated in the salve, effectively stifling any blood. _Perfect._ "As much as I enjoy my enigmas, you young lady are a puzzle I _cannot_ solve."

From my peripherals, I see her shuffle uneasily. "Okay then. Good luck out there, Doctor..."

I roll my eyes as she turns around to leave. I then clean up, glancing around the gymnasium at the various groupings as I do this. I can't help but shake my head. This year more than any other, they're all just setting themselves up for _failure_.

"Someone must be confident." a trainer says from behind me. "That's the _third_ time you were propositioned, and you shot 'em all down."

"More so _apprehension_ than confidence," I drawl as I begin cleaning up. "In the end, there'll only be one, so why not start from the beginning?"

"Seems fair," he replies with a lopsided nod. "Though I hope you're decent with your hands as you are that brain of yours."

I waggle a finger toward him. "If I wasn't, I wouldn't be in the profession that I am."

After thanking him for putting up with me using his portion of the gym for the past day or two, I make my way over to the weapons, which were crowded by tributes eager to squeeze in some knowledge before our private sessions. While the non-Careers attempt to hone some ludicrous blade, I again opt for a 'simple' knife.

I thank the trainer as he wheels me out a torso for me to practice on. I give the knife a twirl in my hands. The knife was 'simple' yes, but it seems that my trade transfers well into a Games setting, as I quickly jut my knife hand toward the right carotid, prompting blood to immediately flow forth. I do this to the thigh, wrist and stomach, all producing the same _devastating_ yet _efficient_ result. The trainers watching me exchange nods of approval with surprised expressions.

Who knew I could _undo_ piles of meat just as well as _mending_ them together...I may not be the best in terms of fighting, but I know what to do, if given the opportunity.

"You're a very thorough person..." says a voice beside me. It's the Twelve man, Kaviraya, working on his ax skills. "I wish I could say the same in this regard...wielding an ax isn't the same as wielding a keyboard..." he continues with a sad chuckle.

I manage a smile. Since he skulked over here yesterday, he's spent some time hacking away at these dummies. "You're coming along nicely, given how much time you've spent here."

" _Seven_ hours, spanning the past two days to be exact." Kaviraya replies. "One can't be _too_ lackadaisical about skills such as these."

I nod. I can respect that. "I agree, Mr. Parathi. What about your partner? You don't have one."

I've noticed his wandering eyes all the way over at the survival stations. Always taking notes with a critical eye, never engaging with the other tributes.

"You don't have anyone either." He points out.

"I feel that my brainpower would be better served if I had myself to worry about..." I reply.

"I agree. The others are far too...gullible. And if not that, _suspect._ " He says with a firm nod. "This year won't be as simple as the others. _You_ seem to be of the same mind."

"You're not wrong."

"Well...at risk of being the fourth one shot down," he begins with a tentative hand through his dark hair. "I was thinking I would propose a... _agreement_ , with you."

I cock a brow. "You would like an ' _agreement'_ with me, Mr. Parathi? That sounds like synonym for _alliance_."

"Not so much a full-fledged alliance, but a pact of _mutual assistance_." He replies. "We don't know what's going to happen once we're in there? If we both happen to make it past the first night, it'd be beneficial to both parties if we had someone we could quickly rely on..."

I smile. "So an _alliance_ then."

"An _ad-hoc_ _partnership_ that can be hastily set up and dissolved when need be." Kaviraya counters with a smirk. A man of word games I see.

"So an _'alliance'_ in which we can continue to worry about ourselves first and foremost but have a helping hand if _need_ be..." I say. Either one of us – more him than I – could be dead by the first night, or on opposite sides of the arena, so it doesn't matter regardless.

"... _Exactly_." He nods. "So, I assume that you accept my pact of mutual assistance?"

"I accept your proposal Mr. Parathi."

 **Maia Clear, 19**  
 **District 3 Female**

We're coming up on the fourth lap now, Laelia and I. I'm accustomed to people eating my dust, but Laelia and I are tit for tat as we race towards a waiting Claudia. I call for Laelia to jump, while we both cling to the ropes that drop down and dangle over an open flame. We swing, drop, and finish with a stride as Claudia marks our time. If it weren't for the constantly elevating tiles, trap doors and flame pits, I could've been fooled that I wasn't in the Capitol but instead back home at Perthshire where I _should be._

Laelia shoots a smile my way, but I don't return it. Doing this gauntlet sapped my love for running completely.

"That was a _Capitol_ hustle, tributes." praises Claudia, glancing at her communicuff. "Eight-fifty is your timing with a kilometer distance. That's near career level."

"What's a career's timing?" Laelia pants as she regains her bearings.

"About sub seven."

"Who's the _fastest_ tribute you've encountered?" I ask.

"Rafaela Novia, I'm sure you know her well. During her private evaluations, we clocked her at sub six, a human pinball if you ask me..." Claudia mutters.

As the Head Trainer turns on her heel and starts off elsewhere, I turn to Laelia who continues to stretch. "You said you did what sport, Laelia?"

"I play as a striker, football...or _soccer_ for you _bollios_." She replies with an eye roll.

"... _'Bollios'_ , what's that?"

"It means white bread or white _people,"_ Laelia explains. "I don't know about Three, but they always seem to have something to say about coloureds in Ten. So why not throw something back?" she finishes with a smile.

I barely return it, however. It takes away from our current situation.

I'm firmly reminded of my situation – as if running trap-ridden gauntlet didn't – as we finish changing and reenter the gymnasium proper. The final day of training seems to have everyone in overdrive. Even the Careers – who've spent the last two days glaring down the competition – are showing off their additional years of supposed training. As Laelia continues to walk on, I stop, coming to a realization as I watch older, more adept tributes train away at the various stations.

Do I honestly have a chance when this all begins? I'm essentially a _twelve year old_ in any regular year.

Laelia jostles my shoulder, prompting me to come back to earth. "C'mon Maia, we're losing training time."

"Right..." I nod with a sigh. However I quickly offer resistance to her insistent tugging when I realize where she's taking us. "Where are you taking me?"

"The weapons, duh..." Laelia replies. "We've _barely_ been over here. It'd be nice to know _some_ form of self-defense."

Like exam time, or marching up to the front of class for a presentation, my stomach hardens as I unenthusiastically follow my ally over to the various blades, guns and bows on display. A bald, muscular trainer lumbers over to us with a toothy grin.

"Ladies..." the man purrs, his voice uncharacteristically... _light._ He must be a Capitol man. "I see you've come over for some crash course training before the private sessions?"

"Yessir, I'll take a spade please." Laelia says.

"Interesting weapon, that one," He replies while handing her the weapon as he turns to me now. "What about you, girlie? What'll it be?"

" _Me_...erm?" I reply clumsily, glancing once again towards the weapons. I'm convinced that no non-Career district knows how to properly wield any of these weapons. It's only through luck that they manage to live long enough or outright survive. I point towards a knife. "A simple knife please."

That's exactly what I 'need', easy-to-use weapon without any nuance. Even still, as the trainer hands me the blade, the thought of plunging this into another person's chest almost makes me drop the thing entirely.

"That's...quite the shovel, Laelia." I gulp, eyeing the serrated weapon as she lifts it into my vision.

Laelia gives the thing a twirl in her hands. "I know, right? The trainers say it could double as a sword, for swiping and blocking."

The burly trainer wheels out two targets. "Some gel torsos should do the trick. Your... _progress_ should be evident in each hit you deliver. Have at it, ladies."

Not quite ready to 'have at it' I turn my attention to Laelia who prepares to strike her dummy. Raising the spade over her head, she slams it down on top of the dummy, effectively cracking its head open as blood dribbles down onto its 'face'.

"Capitol work, now shuffle to the side and go for the neck," Goads the trainer. " _Yes,_ there you go, now get that spade outta there."

With a grunt, Laelia rips the spade from the neck of the dummy, creating a gaping wound that prompts the dummy's head to hang off to the side like the top of a _tuna can._

As the 'blood' pours out onto the floor, I don't know whether to fait or puke or _both._

The trainer claps me on the back, prompting me to shuffle forward in surprise. "Alright, let's see you have a try at it."

"Okay...how do I do it?" I ask wearily.

"Adopt a stance, like so...Keep your free hand like this..." he explains, guiding me into position. "Alright, now give it a couple of swipes."

I do what he asks, and swipe the dummy across its chest. I dealt some 'damage', yeah, but no blood was drawn.

"Those were flesh wounds!" the trainer laments. "Here's hoping that your opponent is a real candy ass, _which_ I highly doubt."

"Try again, Maia." Laelia urges. I do just that, swiping at the arms and the torso in general only to do negligible damage. The more I swipe at this dummy, the more I realize the true reality of my situation.

The trainer regards me with confusion as I place the knife in his hands. "Why stop, kid?"

"Thanks for the tips, Sir." I say, turning as I make my way towards the trees." But I think my time will be best served by sticking to what I know..."

If what I do isn't done perfectly, there is absolutely no point in continuing. It's all or nothing.

"If you say so..." I hear him say.

"Maia, you can't just _give up_ like that!" Laelia calls after me, jogging to my side. "We have to look after each other in there and unfortunately that means using weapons."

I abruptly come to a halt, causing Laelia to bump into me. That was also another problem I had...

"...I don't think I can be allies with you anymore." I mumble.

"Huh...but -"

"I _don't_ want to partner with you _anymore_." I repeat once more, my voice terse. I've tussled with this for days, with the knife situation being the final straw. If anything it was just like school, aiding someone else along just jeopardizes _my_ position. Only having to worry about myself would make things far less complicated. "It's nothing personal, I hope you can understand. I just need to focus on myself, is all. If we see each other, I won't hurt you."

"Oh...okay then," Laelia replies, her eyes swelling up with tears. It takes some fortitude not to join her. "Good luck, Maia. It was nice getting to know you a little bit..."

With that, we quickly split ways. Laelia goes back to the weapons and I to the trees. A quick look around the gym proves that no one is interested in the pair of youngest girls out of the roster. With a sigh, I curl up at the base of a tree.

"What am I going to do?" I lament aloud.

I immediately begin to hear violins and woodwinds. Lo and behold, Vi and Pax appear before me wearing rain slickers and hats as they frolic through flowers.

"What _is she_ going to do?" asks Pax, extending his hand toward the 'rain'. "Are you surprised by the recent developments?"

"Not necessarily." Answers Vi. "Threes always seem to go their own way. The Hunger Games are no exception."

"You two...?" I shake my head. That's what they do, offer advice however weird their delivery of it may be. "I'd prefer to go it alone, but I have no true strategy. Like I said, I don't know what to do..."

Vi laughs, her petite, childish form transforming into a slightly older girl with high cheekbones, blue eyes, freckles and ginger hair tied into two buns. "She thinks she's an anomaly."

"However she isn't the _first_ to be at this point." Pax replies, morphing into an older brown-skinned boy with black-framed glasses as he adjusts them. He then transforms into a young girl with jaw length brown hair.

"She has the brains, obviously." Continues Vi, transforming into a redhead with blue eyes almost covered by bangs - Piper Malveaux of District 5 - and then into a young girl who I immediately recognize as Gwendolyn Faraday.

Pax morphs into Rafaela Novia. "And she most definitely has the prowess to eek it through." He finishes, with her accent, cocky posture and all.

I nod, deciphering the information given to me. "So you're saying if I base my strategy off of similar tributes before me, I'd have a better chance?"

Morphing back into their normal appearances, the two exchange knowing smiles. Pax extends an arm to Vi who gingerly accepts.

"Do you think anything will come of it?"Asks Vi, picking up a tulip as she studies it.

"Given what we know, she would better have her wits about her." Replies Pax. "Besides, do they even want a victor of that stripe?"

"Well, it's not really about what _they_ want. It's about if whether they - the contestants - within _themselves_ have the fortitude to persist despite any hangups." Says Vi.

"What about _luck_?" asks Pax.

"That too," replies Vi with a smile. "Although something tells me that _she_ has a lot of that. Maybe, a little bit of _both_."

As they dissipate into nothingness, I already know what needs to be done. I quickly rush over to the tables and swipe up a datapad. Those modules won't read themselves.


	26. Training Day Three - Part Two

_**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **Training Day Three - Part Two**_

* * *

 **Russett Gilmour, 29**  
 **District 8 Male**

One by one, each target that sprints past my vision are disintegrated with every knife I lob towards them, twenty of them in all. I was winded by my fifth, but I continued on anyway.

"That's some Capitol knife throwing, tribute." The trainer complements with a clap to my back. "Where'd you get it from?"

"Honestly?" I reply with a chortle and a slight shrug. " _Bars_... and growing up in Eight in general."

Darts, knives, it didn't matter. They served as an interesting way of passing time during breaks or after a lengthy shift at work. And the fact that the target on the board was often the Capitol seal, we made sure our throws were in earnest.

"Should I set you up for another go?" she asks.

"Sure thing." I nod.

"Alright, we'll start up again in two."

Once she moves off I sink onto the nearest bench, taking the opportunity to finger my engagement ring to Clarisse and the bracelet she and Gen made me. Glancing up and taking in the gym proper, everyone besides the Careers seems to be more competent in their craft. The guy from Five earns a clap on the back from the Eleven male as he cleaves the head of a dummy right off with a hammer of sorts, Chris immediately joins in with the woman from Snow Island on his tail.

 _Groups_...It always makes my stomach crawl, seeing things like that. They never were my thing, social calls, though I _want_ them to be.

"Miss, I might just take a break from... _this_." I say to the trainer as she nods. Rising from the bench I make my way to the survival stations, landmarked by a giant oak tree used for climbing.I walk nearby Alana, who happily talks with a gaggle of female trainers, each holding copies of her book and sharpies to boot. Through the throng of admirers we catch eyes as she flashes me a smile, something I return but quickly return to a frown once she's out of sight. Finally making my way to the oak tree, I rest against its base with a deep sigh. Decent knife throwing skills are _nothing_ when you have an _author, adult_ Careersand _doctors_ as your competition.

Janice's squabbling about sponsoring this year plays back in my head. " _They say that sponsorship numbers are going to be extravagant this year!"_ yeah, well how am I supposed to garner a following with _this_ type of competition?

"Would you like some tea?" asks a distant voice.

"I'm sorry?"I reply, perplexed when the young man from Ten drops from the tree and lands before me.

"Would you like some _tea_?" he asks again, pouring the substance from a canteen into the cup-like lid. "You look a little anxious. _This_ happens to take the edge off for me, so maybe it'll help _you_."

"Sure, thanks." I accept the cup and take a sip. It's _good_ , ten times better than the bitter stuff found elsewhere. "Tastes _great_."

"What troubles you exactly...apart from the _dying_ aspect, that is?"

"The interesting competition," I reply. "You can't exactly garner sponsors if everyone else has a more interesting story to tell."

The boy shrugs. "If you ask me, lone wolves perform just fine. All one has to do is look back and _count_ , they add up."

"I guess that's true." I relent. Gwendolyn Faraday, Piper Malveaux, all the victors from Six including the odd girl from last year, plenty of underdogs have taken the crown recently. "But I doubt that's what the Capitol wants _this time_ around."

"Why does it matter?" he counters. "As long as they got their show leading up to the finale, beggars can't be choosers."

I nod in agreement. "I can't offer a rebuttal to that."

"The best things one can do in a situation like this is put on a brave face and endure the storm." He says. "I know it sounds cliché, but 'trying' is all we can do. You have your motivations, and I have mine. Just _use_ it."

"Thanks..." I say with a tentative scratch of the head."Er...good luck out there."

" _Likewise_ , Eight."

 **Wondr'a Okafor, 30**  
 **District 11 Female**

"Are you _sure_ you'll be okay?"The trainer presses as he hands me a canteen.

"Yes, I'll be just fine thank you. I'm just feelin' a little poorly," I reply softly, accepting his canteen. "It's probably just nerves..."

"Well, you'd better get those nerves under control." He warns me. "If not..."

I nod. "Yes, I understand."

You see it all the time on the reruns of previous Games. Kids scared out of their minds to the point of throwing up. I suppose I'm just one those tributes. I've been struggling with it for days, and it's all coming to a head now. Being here gives someone _so much_ to think about...

"Also, don't you think you would be best prepared if you moved on to another section?" he asks. "You've been tending to this garden so much you might as well _sleep_ down here."

"No sir, I am very much... _happy_ here." I reply, taking out a... _ugly-_ looking shovel that doubles as a chainsaw. "Besides, I don't think anyone will trifle with me when I have this...thing by my side."

"You'd better hope that arena of yours is the Garden of Eden." He snips with a chuckle. I ignore him and instead return my focus back onto my garden, the only thing in this place that keeps me... _happy._ It reminds me of Momma, and how I would follow her and watch as she tended to Mother Nature. And here I am now, following in her... _stead._

Where tending to this garden makes me happy, it also keeps me _...distracted. Distracted_ from questions like why am I here? Why did I volunteer in the first place?

I shake my head, wiping my forehead and caring less about the soil smudge. It's better to be _here_ and die than continue to be worked to death at a _desk_ doing something I hate. It's better to be like Momma, a free spirit, than Dad and my brothers, cold and _...on one track._

My mind drifts off to Otel Sharpes, but I quickly return to tending the field. He's young. It would _never_ work between us anyway and I'd be a damn _fool_ to think otherwise.

"You've been working pretty hard Wondr'a."

"Hmm?" looking up, the man and woman from Six stand over me. The man, like his reaping, looks very kind with soft eyes while the woman on the other hand looks...blank as she adjusts her glasses. They, alongside myself and the Five woman make up the doctors swept up in this year's Games. I can't help but wonder how many people are affected by their reaping. Paisley and Octavia implored that I make the effort to partner up. But like Linden, they would just end up leaving rather than being hitched to a scatterbrain like me.

"We've been watching you." He says again, his eyes going over my handiwork. "You're a real whiz when it comes to this stuff. What are you, an _agricultural_ doctor? I'm Theilian by the way, and this is Zahira."

I offer a small smile. "I'm...Wond'ra...And no, I am a doctor of _technology_...Though my Momma's guidance prompted me to take to _this—"_ I gesture to the soiled ground "—Pretty quickly."

Zahira raises an eyebrow as a scoff comes from out her lips. "You're a doctor of _technology_ in a place like _District 11_?"

"You're stero...ty..." I find myself grimacing as I face another brain crash. They too – like everyone else – look at me with worried...looks. "You're _assuming_!" I finally manage to say with a smile. "Machines are very important _everywhere_...even with _food making_."

Thelian steps forward. "Do you mind if you teach two _city kids_ a thing or two about survival?"

"Of course!" I chirp with a smile. It's not like it makes a difference to me anyway, giving them a better chance. If I could say I helped at least one person before I passed, volunteering would be worth it even more.

"You don't peg me as a lover of mortal combat, Wondr'a." says Zahria as she sits down. "Why did you volunteer?"

"Disabled tribute aside...Someone with your background would be reluctant to just give it all up like that...myself included unfortunately." Thelian adds as Zahria nods in agreement.

"Oh well..." I shrug, raising a hand to rub my shoulder. _Maybe I'm tired of being worked like a dog until sickness by a selfish father supported by an uncaring family..._ "Maybe I lived a...nice enough life already."

The two Sixers exchange weary looks before returning to their work. They're nice folk, as I come to find out. Both of them have kids and practice out of the same clinic, even went to the same school. Must be nice, having someone familiar to endure all this with.

"Why do you speak like that?" Zahira mentions out of the blue. It prompts me to slowly turn towards the two, frowning.

Sighing, I gently navigate through my plant-like hair, revealing the scar I received from my...accident. They didn't bother asking any more questions and to be fair, I think I preferred it that way too. Any more talk about it, I'd throw myself in front of the boy from Two who continues to practice with a bow.

Surprisingly, for a bunch of city folk they manage well with plant identification, cooking and cleaning meat and basic gardening. I reckon it's because they're... _professional_ s – rather than scared children.

"We all know what nightlock looks like, pitch-black blueberries basically," I say while swiping through the various vegetation one could find in an arena. "Basically...stay away from any odd-coloured or _patterned_ fruits. When in doubt, cut one open, place it on a leaf and the juice will eat _right_ _through_ it."

Thelian places a gentle hand on my shoulder, his facial expression reflecting the gesture. "Thank you, Wondr'a. How someone could know _so much_ is beyond me."

"No problem." I reply with a warm smile. "I love helping folks out."

"Why not continue to help us out?" asks Zahira. "Let's ally up. Something tells me we'd make a good team."

As the two Sixers stand up, Thelian offers me a hand with that smile of his. When I don't take it, his smile falters. Even Zahira, with her... _not caring_ looks, looks confused as I give them both a sad smile.

"Thank you, but no thank you." I say. "I wish y'all the best of luck though. I truly mean it."

They trade looks, Theilian looking sadder than Zahira who nods off in another direction. "Alright uh...it was nice meeting you, Wondr'a. Good luck out there."

Offering a slight wave, I watch them turn to leave. And as they do this, part of me wants to cry out and tell them to wait up. But I'm no good to them, I know it.

I'm not even good to _myself_.

 **Nautia Novakova, 29**  
 **District 4 Female**

The Training Center's pool serves as my only place of refuge and clarity. Like the beaches in Four or the open seas in the Gulf, it was just me and the cool water as I effortlessly maneuvered through. Well...almost effortless, as a trainer decided to make the pool simulate a body of water found in an arena. By the eighth lap, I was focused enough to brave on the rest of the day. My partner on the other hand, business-executive-now-tribute Aurelia Baudelaire is frayed down to the last strand. She sits poolside a holopad in her hand as she studies strategy guides. She glances up from her datapad with relief in her eyes.

" _There you are_." She says tiredly."I thought you'd _never_ come up."

"What can I say," I shrug, accepting the towel she offers me. "Swimming works wonders."

"Yes, well, can we go train for _real_ now?" she snaps nervously. "We don't have long until the private sessions."

I frown. "You could've trained on without me, you know. I'd find you."

" _No, no_ that wouldn't do." She replies with a quick shake of the head. "What would _the others_ think?"

"They wouldn't think anything at all, not since you _shooed_ them all away..." I mutter while following her lead into the change room. When we do get back onto the gym floor, I find myself glancing over at the man from Seven and his collection of allies that outman the Careers _two to one._ The woman from Snow Island, Donna, cradles the girl from Ten, Laelia, by the elbow over to Chris and their allies. They exchange words as Chris makes a playful wave toward the sheepish Laelia.

"Sure thing, the more the merrier, am I right?" I hear the jovial lumberjack bellow as he claps her on the back. Just feet away from us under the giant tree, the girl from Three quickly puts her head down just as I shoot a curious glance her way. I can't help feel myself twinge with disappointment. I mean, at first I was okay with her dismissing the Twelve girl – _nothing_ good ever comes from them – but declining Seven was a little _much_. I had half a mind to leave Aurelia but that wouldn't be _fair_. How would I feel if _she_ up and left _me_? Then again, that alliance seems full enough as it is and who knows if it'll bide the tides of the arena... _Then again_ , who's to say _we_ could?

She taps me on the shoulder. "Nautia, we're going over to the weapons now."

"We just _got here_ , Aurelia." I reply, gesturing to my lit fire. The gym and all its contents were like Career training notched up to _eleven_ , not to mention naval recruit training. I know the basics and a little beyond that, It'd be nice to settle down someplace instead of hopping from station to station like Aurelia seems to like.

"It's the _last day._ We have to absorb _everything._ " She explains, watching as I douse the flames. "Surely bits and pieces will stick."

"I don't think retention works like that...at least not for me." I reply, quirking a brow as she frowns deeply. I find myself sighing, giving in once more. " _But_ okay...if you say so, more for you than me."

We saunter over to the it being the last day, every tribute seemed to be jamming in what knowledge they three days of casual observation, I could see the improvements everyone was making. The guy from Five with that mace of his, the pair from Six fending off a much bigger trainer, the Careers no longer casually observing but actively making a show of their skills. I can't help but feel hesitant. We aren't a bunch of kids this time around. We have much more at stake, which means they –like _me_ – are desperate to stay alive by any means necessary.

I turn my attention back to Aurelia and watch as she selects a poniard – the daggers sophisticated sibling. The trainer asks for my selection, but I politely decline. If there's one thing I could thank my parents for, is their persistent drilling of Career ethos into me. Picking up a weapon and swinging it around for a few hours would be redundant in my case. Watching as Aurelia stumbles around with the armor-clad trainer, I could see why her nerves were frayed.

"And you said you were _trained_?"I inquire, trying to stifle a chuckle as she fends off her opponent with shoves and menacing movements. It's as if she was fending off an animal rather than a human. It's so odd, watching a tribute from One with minimal skill like hers. When was the last time One had someone like her?

"Not by the academy...but a tutor."She pants, shoving the trainer backward as she thrusts towards him with her poniard. "...For the past...three months."

"Right..." I reply dryly, my inner career beginning to bubble over while continuing to watch this display. "Maybe you should go with a spear or something similar? It'd really suit your fighting style and –"

Her head twists my way, the poniard jutted towards me. "I'm _quite fine_ where I am, thank you."

The more I watch her stumble around, the more I grow...annoyed. I find myself _again_ glancing around at the various alliances formed. You can't help but compare and exactly does _she_ bring to the alliance? Her weapons skills are subpar, as well as her survival skills...Clearly there's an imbalance with our relationship. Are her intentions genuine? Am I just a stepping stone?

I wince when Aurelia gets checked to the ground by the trainer. I wouldn't put it past her to give up right then and there. But after a second of locking eyes, the businesswoman from One is quickly back on her feet and on the attack once more.

I shake my head. I can't be _too_ harsh. That's what an alliance is, a stepping stone. A stepping stone to _victory_. She needs _me_ more than I need _her_.

 **Verona Kinsley, 63**  
 **District 7 Female**

Leveling another ax, I lob it towards the dummy that stands feet away. It sinks itself into the stomach area. Not bad, the other previous tries landed in the shoulder and chest respectively. Overall, I'm just glad I can hit the target _consistently_. You can't fight it. Almost everything revolves around an ax in seven. Fast chops, slow chops, axe throwing for ' _fun',_ by the time your twelve, you know your way around one fairly well. You never forget, really.

Hermia chortles out a low whistle. "Those are some pretty decent hits."

"Ehh...I'm too slow." I grumble, adding "Which will most likely be the _death_ of me."

Though the mind is willing, the body _isn't_ as much. And with these kiddies running around, I don't think it'll be enough. Shave off twenty years off my current age though and I'd be a real _Johanna Mason._

Hermia offers to give my hand a squeeze, something I return in earnest. I appreciate the gesture, but it's true. I couldn't imagine going toe-to-toe with _any_ of the people in this room. Taking my mind off of my almost certain death, I nod off to her dummy, which is nicked with various knives and even a hatchet. "Someone's a jack of all trades..."

"My elder siblings were cadets at the academy back in Two." Hermia explains. "They were good with knives, hatchets and the like...taught me a thing or two – nothing serious – just for fun. Then the War happened."

I nod. For the Rebel side, it really was a 'make-do' war. "Pick up anything you could get—"

Hermia mirrors my gesture. "—Practicality is k— _exactly_."

"Check out at Tobias Odair over there..." I snort, lightly jabbing Hermia's side.

Tobias, armed with a trident, goes through the motions of using the weapon under the tutelage of a trainer, who looks less than amused as the older gentleman bleats out war cries and exaggerates his movements. The fool was having too much fun if you asked me.

Hermia smirks while slowly shaking her head with disbelief. "Tobi...what are you _still_ doing with that thing?"

" _What_? You guys need to stop buying into _stereotypes_..."Tobias replies with a shrug."What, would you prefer my weapon of choice to be my _brain_ or something...as if it already _isn't_." he adds with a rueful smile.

"All you've done is twirl it around like it's a _toy_..." I reply tiredly. Although I couldn't help but retain my smile, Tobias was a child at heart through and through.

"It's a _comfort_ thing." He shoots back playfully, making a show of caressing the weapon. "And given how adept our competition is with weapons like these, a little comfort wouldn't hurt anybody."

Tobias isn't wrong. They may not be Careers, but the other normal tributes from what I see are performing well with their weapons of choice. Every day, everyone seems to be performing better than the last. Knives just might not cut it this time around.

"What's wrong?" Hermia asks, jostling her head to and fro with a slight smile as she adds "Besides the _obvious_?"

"I'm just trying to remember what you said before. What exactly are we _'working towards'_ again?" I ask her. She had mentioned that when we'd met during the chariots. That as long as we were together, we could 'work' towards something. What was it?

She replies with a suppressed sigh. I narrow my eyes at her. "Don't give me _that_...sure we're together, but we're not exactly _spring chickens_ either."

The last thing I could give a hoot about is the opinion of a rainbow, but all one has to do is turn on a HV. We're older, which means were undesirable both in ability and what our generation represents. We're basically _filler,_ supporting pieces for the main character – the 'victor' – to ascend their throne.

If I know one thing for certain, it's that I'm _not_ going to be their ' _piece'_. I want to make my _own_ show.

"...Survival?" she answers, her tone obvious that even _she_ doesn't know for certain.

"That's nice and all, but do you _honestly_ think we'll 'survive'? There has to be more than just coasting from day to day." I retort back. "What would they do with a middle-aged former rebel as their victor? When they have so many young faces to choose from?"

Will they even _let_ us live past the first night? The Capitol is a fickle mistress, and will be eager to make an example out of any rebel...even if they were just lowly grunts like us. In a hushed voice I add "You've seen the Avoxes during the ceremonies, the various riots across the country. If now was the time to make a difference, _now_ is the time!"

"You said it yourself, we're _not_ spring chickens. The time to 'act' is over, at least for _us."_ Hermia seethes. "Leave the bigger picture to those on the _outside_. Besides, I have a family to protect. What about _your_ family?"

"Seven _is_ my family. My father and I have spent our entire lives taking care of its downtrodden and forgotten."I retort back. "And I know for a fact that they would want me to make it known how they feel about this 'twist'."

I've worked _too hard and too long_ just to toss my reputation away and cower in the dirt. And with the spotlight on us, it'd be waste to just 'conform' instead of standing up for what is _right._

"All we can do at the moment is roll with the punches, work within our parameters." She says with a hand placed on my shoulder. "Right Tobi?"

"Hmm? Oh, sure...I'm just observing our enigmatic tribute from Twelve do her thing..." Tobias nods, jutting his head off towards one of the mats.

Armed with a rapier, the young woman from District 12 goes head-to-head with an armored trainer. She was nowhere near the skill of a Career tribute, but still carried confidence in her technique. With Twelve's population consisting mainly of Panem's 'undesirables', I wouldn't be surprised if she dabbled in some form of 'training'. Her volunteering all but confirms that.

And if there's _one thing_ I know about District 12, it's that they are nothing but trouble. The way she strutted up to that stage in that miner's uniform without a single word _screamed_ trouble. What was she planning to do with her notoriety, I wonder?

They seemed to have paused with their practicing. The Twelve girl removes her helmet, flipping her strawberry blonde hair as her deep blue eyes catch ours. She's been eyeballing us ever since the chariot rides. While moving towards the exits, she gestures with her head as if she wants us to follow along.

That impish grin spreads across Tobi's lips again. "A rendezvous with a mysterious young lady...what could go wrong?"

I hook my hands in the crook of their elbows. "Things are about to get a tad more interesting."

It may not be us who gets the ball rolling again, but at least _we_ can help.

 **Hermia Rhodes 52,**  
 **District Nine Female**

On HV, the Junkies won't shut up about Reaping Day till now, she's received Career-level adoration. _"The elusive girl from District 12"_ they call her. Since she refrained from declaring her name after her volunteering, they've resorted to taking bets guessing what it was. When I first laid eyes on the girl on the train ride here, the defeatist in me wanted to scoff out loud. _Certainly any strains of stubbornness have been culled out of our gene pool?_ But the more I see, the more intrigued I get.

We meet outside the gym, a concrete hallway with a set of washrooms and a fountain – for the staff I suppose. We all still when two Peacekeepers march out from the men's. The same two who were guarding the exit we came from.

"What are you guys doing?" One of them growls. "Tribute-designated bathrooms are _inside_ the facility."

"Oh settle down, buckethead." Verona scoffs with a wave of a hand. "We were just about to engage in lucrative discussion, one that's sure to keep the audience on the edges of their seats. So if you boys could run along...?"

Even though they were lowly privates, judging by the single chevrons on their shoulder pads, I half expected him to take his baton and cave her head in right there. Instead, the PK mutters something about "five minutes" and returns inside. All of us can't help but smirk.

"You have quite a way with words, miss." Twelve trills. I can't help but be taken aback by her accent. It's prim and proper, Capitol without the _Capitol_. No twang like most Twelvers I see on HV.

Verona lays a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Sweetie, I'm far beyond caring. I think you understand." She nods.

"So, Twelve," Tobias begins with that smile of his."You gonna let us in on the methods to your madness?"

"That's been my plan since day one." She replies with a just as wide smile. "However as you might've noticed, I'm hesitant to show my cards so early."

"Oh we've noticed." Tobias replies slyly. I can't help but bristle slightly at the admission. Our eyes turn toward the gym entrance as Ricardo from Snow Island stomps into our gaggle. Where Tobias is slightly portly and us women naturally petite, Ricardo towers over us. He was a Peacekeeper once, and it shows with his chiseled jaw pocked with scars and an eye that appears slightly lazy. You'd think he'd be hobnobbing with the Careers but he's been acting the opposite since we've gotten here.

Twelve gestures to us. "Mr. Marcenas, we have new friends joining us."

"Little Miss Anonymous here inspired you too?" chides Tobi, prodding the side of an amused Twelve with his elbow.

"You could say that." Ricardo replies. His voice was deep yet rich like many Snow Island denizens.

I extend a hand forward. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ricardo."

Verona claps him on the back. "Anyone with the chutzpah to do what you did is a friend of mine."

He lets out a warm chuckle that envelops the hallway, enveloping my hand into his as he pumps it like he's reconnected with an old friend."Likewise...Hermia is it?" he turns to Verona now. "I don't see the need to willfully engage in these 'festivities'. I'm simply responding to it like any sane person would."

"Not many sane people these days..." mutters Tobias, in which Ricardo replies with a headshake and a shrug.

"I'm glad we're all getting along...as friendly as tributes _can_ be. It warms my heart." Twelve begins, her eyes meeting each one of ours. "I think we know why we're all here?"

"No, no we don't." I reply with a smirk. As nice as this prospect is, I don't like going in _blind_.

Tobias seems to agree, smirking as he says "Ehhh...I'd be nice if you could explain...Y'know, peace of mind and all that."

"Certainly. I am requesting an alliance of capable tributes by my side-"

"Why aren't you with the Careers?" I interject. It's obvious. Twelve is kill on sight for them ever since HG 76. How Ainsley Tisdayle still breathes boggles me till this day.

"Or any tribute under fifty years old, which there are many..." says Verona.

"I prefer those with...?" Twelve taps her lip with her finger. " _Comparable morals..."_

"Are we _cushions_ for you?" I ask. Felicity and Esther are like water, easy to read and see though. They were even easier when they were _her_ age. But missy here...

" _No_ , not at all," she beams. "I'd imagine that if this alliance were to falter, anyone here is exceptional enough to survive alone. _I_ just prefer to _collaborate_ with those of the same mindedness. I prefer to leave it at _that_. _So_ , what do you say?"

Verona glances around before shrugging. "Why the hell not?"

"I could use some more friends." Adds Tobi while making a show of snaking his arms around my and Verona's waist. "Not that you two _aren't_ great."

As her eyes meet mine, I nod. More people equals more security. "Of course."

Upon returning to the Gym, it felt like senior year all over again with all the inquisitive eyes darting our way. Regardless of our overall situation, this newly-brokered alliance was spirit-booster for sure. As we sit down for lunch, I take in the groups of tributes huddled around various booths and tables. It's all coming together now. The battlefield was set. All we needed to do was wait.

"Say Twelve?" asks Tobi, prompting the young woman to glance up from her lunch. "What possessed you to put your neck out like you did?"

She shrugs. "The dream of being a victor of significance?"

"You sound like a Two." I jest.

She smiles. "Not _that_ type of significance, I'm hoping for something _far better_."

"I see." I nod. There's definitely something more there. Exactly _what_ is what interests me.

Hearing shuffling, I turn to see _Alana Oskoii_ with a cheery grin on her lips and a plate of food in her hands.

"Seat for one more?"

"Please..." I say, dragging the chair out for her.

The girl's face lights up with glee. "Miss Oskoii! I see you've taken up my request?"

"Yes, yes I have." Alana nods, sighing deeply. "You're very much right in regards to our talk."

"Glad to have ya," Verona says while pumping hands with the author. "I _loved Songbird's Cry_ so very much."

Smiling sadly, Alana leaves a lasting hand over Verona's. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"My heart twitters over our group falling into place." Says Twelve while placing her hands together. Her eyes drift past the table entirely. "Perhaps later this evening we could—"

"You have a starin' problem, Twelve?" a feminine, deep District 2 accent growls. I follow Twelve's eyes to see Sarissa Levesque bearing down on her with a hard leer.

"...No, I—"

"I see you've recruited some useful idiots..." she jeers hotly, her leer shifting from her to the table entirely. " _Typical_..."

"The last time I checked – in my humble opinion – this wasn't a high school." I reply tersely, my arms folded before me. "So, could you _kindly_ move on?"

Her brows quirked with astonishment, the edges of her lips twitch into a grin. She waggles a finger at me. "...You're right...Talk is for the weak..." nodding, she turns to walk away before adding " _Actions_ speak louder than _words_."

A collective sigh was audible around the table, besides Ricardo who continues to glare down Levesque as if he were going to take up the incursion. A gentle tap on the shoulder by yours truly is enough to calm him down, just barely.

"I'll take you up on that evening invite..." Tobi says. I follow his gaze toward the Career table, who eye us like mutts to a wounded tribute. "Something tells me we'll need the extra deliberation."

Silent, I continue to sip my tea. At least now I'm moving towards _something_ – survival. Nothing about this was going to be easy. Tobi, I and Verona on our own were just cushioning ourselves. But with these two, we could make _serious_ progress...even if our apparent leader is a dubious one.

 **Aurelia Baudelaire, 31**  
 **District One Female,**

"—One hundred and ninety-nine, _two hundred._ " And this time, when I skewer the dummy I leave the poniard in its gut as I clutch my knees and regain my bearings with deep, shallow though the trainers gave their seals of approval here and with the other stations, I feel like I've gained _absolutely_ _nothing_ these past three days. I begin to think of my little Satin and what he might be up to. Hmph, _my little Satin_. Does he even know I'm _his_ or vice versa? Will he _remember_ me?

My thoughts are interrupted by a pair of boots. "Aurelia?"

Waiting at least a twenty more seconds before acknowledging her, I glance upward, meeting Nautia's eyes as I scowl. For the past three months, I've gotten that look from all manners of people. I'm _sick and tired_ of it.

"Don't look at me like _that_." I snap.

"Like what?" she replies, perplexed.

"Like you _pity_ me." I reply listlessly, avoiding her gaze.

"You missed _lunch_ , Aurelia." She says to me, her tone soft. "Why did you up and leave like that?"

"It's not like dinner will be served shortly..." I reply dryly. Not sparing her another glance, I turn my attention back to the dummy, ripping my poniard out...alongside part of its digestive track as it plops onto the floor with a wet _smack._

"Learning about knives is a great way to start, but have you thought about _expanding_ maybe?" Nautia asks. "Using a spear would be perfect for-"

"I'm _fine_ , thank you." I fume, using my hands for extra empathies.

"That's an odd way of showing it." She snips in reply. "Let me _help_ you—"

"I said I'm fine!" I snap, softening my features when Nautia frowns."It's _fine_...I'll just bear through the next few days and hope for a quick death...maybe the pedestals or something."

She begins to extend a hand toward me. "Aurelia..."

I ignore her. Instead I begin sauntering over to the pedestal in which Claudia Floris occupies. The other tributes do this too, forming a semi circle around the head trainer.

"So," Claudia begins. "That's it, three whole days of training in various aspects in which you as a tribute may enact or encounter. Like I stated on day one, twenty-six of you stand here today, chances are only one of you will be coming out. From what we see, you've heeded our words to some extent. All that matters now is your application. You are hereby dismissed until you report in for individual assessments. I suggest you focus on a core application you think you've excelled at while showcasing other skills that may prove useful. You're all old enough and have witnessed enough Games to get the gist of tomorrow's festivities. You've been a good roster. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

As per the usual for the past four or so days, living here on One's floor is nothing short of a social _disaster_. Rather than the living space it was supposed to be, it was instead a makeshift office, with multiple phone lines constantly ringing while One's escort Rouge Peakes or Serena Westenfluss' assistant, Erin Stenway, answering with their sickly sweet voices as they juggle multiple calls.

"This is the Training Center, District One Residence? Yes, Kaiser is available. Please hold."

"This is the Training Center, District One Residence? Ms. Westenfluss is currently busy, please call again soon."

Though Thames is subject to multiple giddy updates about his status with sponsors at large, I've yet to receive such news. It's funny, we have five living Victors yet none of them have spoken to me since we've gotten here. I'd think I was _invisible_ if Rouge didn't try to include me.

Being engorged in business since I was a tween, I'd think I'd be used to an environment like this, but being out of the loop – with _no control_ – I can't help but _seethe_ as everyone – including Thames – buzz about the floor with purpose. Even though I'm not one of their coveted ' _Careers'_ Rouge insists that many sponsors are eager to help me through the Games.

"In fact," she chirps giddily. "One man from the Ministry of Commerce called requesting a sizable share within your company! That seems like a perfectly good cushion if the worst happens...n-not saying that it will _most definitely_ happen of course...!"

It gets even more awkward when the calls slow and we settle down for dinner. I make a show of twiddling with the silver bullet _they_ left me following Father and Mother's 'Incident'. None of them – and I mean _none_ of them – dare look my way as we eat through the various courses presented to us.

"So...Thames," Begins Kaiser while he pats down his lips with a serviette. "Any final reports to offer up?"

"The Twelve girl has mustered up a decent crew." Thames offers. "There's another significant group of non-Career males. Also, when the others interact, they seem pretty...cordial."

"Keep an eye out for that," warns Glisten with a pointed finger. "You don't want to get swamped when the gong goes off."

"If you can, bump some off with outlying gear." Savera grumbles with a mouthful of potato still in her mouth, which earns a scornful gaze from Rouge.

"The Twelve girl should go first." Cessna adds while doting over a bowl of peas and a glass of water. This earns grumbles of opinion.

"Yeah, but she's a source of ' _entertainment'_." Glisten snorts in reply. "They'll probably place her somewhere safe."

Thames points to him, swallowing his food. "Don't forget, she has muscle in the form of the Snow Island man."

After that, the table devolves into heated debate pertaining to how Thames and his group should tackle this issue – that and the private sessions – all while _I_ continue to be _left out._ Letting out an audible exhale, I hold onto the silverware in my hands for dear life. Noticing this, Rouge's grey eyes meet mine from across the way as her lips curl into a smile.

"So, Ms. Baudelaire," she says aloud, earning startled stares from the rest of the table. "How did _your_ three days go?"

" _Oh gee_ , _thank you_ for asking!"I chirp, my tone and movements equally as exaggerated. "I spent them scraping along, learning as I go. Although, I would fare _much better_ if I had mentors who actually _cared_ about my wellbeing!"

My eyes wander, meeting _each and every_ one of their faces. Snow knows they haven't acknowledged me since my name was selected. I revel as they squirm, their eyes facing towards me but never _meeting_ mine. They're all _pathetic_ , choosing to supply and bolster a _deathmatch_ rather than improve the lives of their fellow man. Glancing past Thames, who frowns sadly, my vision focuses squarely on Serene Westenfluss, who absentmindedly eats away at her dinner.

The Avoxes have all but fled from the dining room. Cessna's Chihuahua whimpers. In the living room 'office' Serene's shadow Erin keeps a watchful eye on all parties whist filing her nails. I swear there's a small smirk on her thin lips.

"Ms. Baudelaire," Rouge inquires with a shaky finger. "Arguments aren't good for group cohesion. If you have an issue you'd like _resolved_...perhaps—"

My hand waves lazily toward her direction. "Haven't you anything to say, 'Governor'!?"

She raises an eyebrow, her face quirked with 'confusion'. "...I'm sorry?"

" _Ha_ , you'd think after what you've done you'd at least offer me a guided tour to my grave," I shoot off an exaggerated shrug. "But then again, given the situation, I would go about it the same way you guys are...You wouldn't want me to come back, right?!"

"...I'm sorry. I'm confused as to what you mean." She replies with a dry scoff. She glances either which way to her fellow Victors but their eyes remained fixed on their plates. "If you're talking about your father, I apologize about what happened...'62 was a rough year for both sides."

"Spare me the 'playing dumb' routine." I seethe. "Hopefully what they say about victors' wellbeings is _true_ , because I don't know _how_ any of you sleep soundly at night."

They know I'm right, because they continue to say nothing except stare at me like the Avoxes who served us our dinner. I place my napkin on the chair, and glide off towards the elevator. "Please excuse me."

Moments later, I find myself on the roof of the Training Center's center tower, overlooking the Capitol and its neon lights at large. I may be dead in a matter of days, but at least my conscious is _marginally_ clear.

The elevator hisses and the click of heels follow. I don't bother looking back, as I already know who it is.

Rouge's hand gently taps my shoulder. "Ms. Baudelaire...?"

I sigh. She's just an intermediary, no use being upset at the girl. " _Please_ Rouge, call me Aurelia." I say, my eyes continuing to gaze out towards the City Circle.

" _Aurelia_ ," she repeats firmly. "I'm terribly sorry about your treatment so far. As you might know, I'm quite keen on the interviews and the pomp side of things. Starting _immediately_ after your private sessions, I'll make you the best you can be! . . . Not that you _aren't_ good enough."

I offer a smile. At least she's trying. "Thank you, Rouge. You're very kind."

"Although I'm not...'combat-oriented'..." she goes on, "I consider myself a gal who can get things done if need be. So I spoke to Claudia and some others and..."

Clutching my shoulders, she spins me towards the elevator and I'm _genuinely_ surprised. Nautia stands idly by with two spears in her hand alongside some modest equipment from the gymnasium. I turn to thank Rouge but the escort is already entering the elevator.

I take a step forward. "Hello Nautia."

"Your escort told me enough." She offers a single nod with a knowing grin. "So I said... _why not_ , although we don't have much time. I don't blame you,

I shake my head. Growing up, I was always told to never let anyone see you bleed. Keep your cards to your chest. It doesn't feel right taking the helping hand, but if I don't..."You don't have to do this..."

"I know." She shrugs. "It just seems like the right thing to do? I mean, if it's the _last thing_ – Gods forbid – then helping you is a nice note to end on."

She tosses me a spear and I catch it, affirming my grip. " _Okay_ , I'm yours to teach."

* * *

 **Alliances for the 100th Hunger Games:**

Alliance 1: Sarissa, Thames, Warren and Solomon "Sol"  
Alliance 2: Ricardo, Vera, Verona, Hermia, Tobias, Alana  
Alliance 3: Thelian, Zahira,  
Alliance 4: Donna, Laelia, Linden , Chris, Gio,  
Alliance 6: Aurelia and Nautia  
Solo: Maia Clear, Russett, Emmanuel, Wondr'a, Kavi, Tuesday, Lars

I have a **poll** regarding Victors that you like within my universe. I'd love it if you answered it. As it pertains to upcoming **(very upcoming)** content, and I'd like your opinion. (Although the website is outdated in concerns to headcanon for my victors, choose anyway. What appears on the website may be far different from what you will see very soon.)

If you type in "the lucky few hunger games" in google or use the link on the profile, you'll see all of them. I excluded people who won pre HG 75. I may just use some that *I*enjoy the most, but I value your opinion. Select as many as you like.

 _ **A/N**_ : Why split day three? Because putting you through 12-14k words is a little much especially after a month or so hiatus.

 ** _I apologize for being slow...Again._ **But were all grown adults now...so I doubt you guys are on the edge of your seats for me. Like I've stated previously, I went for cigarettes for 2 years in my previous story, but I came back and finished it. I'm always working on this in the background, as I always say.

To explain my 'absence' I have a couple of questions for you.

1\. You've just field stripped your rifle, what do you do next?

2\. How does one identify unexploded ordinance?

3\. What are the key tenants of Marxist Criminology?

4\. What are the 12 logical fallacies?

...I've been doing many things, I'm sorry. But hey, the Coronavirus is wracking our planet so I get to stay in for a couple of weeks! Why is everyone suddenly interested in toilet paper? The store that I work at is all out of canned food and HAND SANITIZER, I SWEAR TO GOD IF SOMEONE ASKS ME FOR LYSOL OR ANY OTHER CLEANING PRODUCT...

Also, they haven't called me out for any army duties, yet. So basically I'm free to write. We're over the hump now, and onto 'lighter' material _(Private Sessions, Interviews...plus world-building goodies)_ so things should take so long to kick off. Expect the private sessions this week most likely. Although I have some essays to complete, the interviews should be coming soon too.

 **Further possible...impediments to updates include:** More training on a full-time basis this summer, which is about a month long. After that, this guy is a free bird.


	27. Private Sessions

_**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games**_  
 _ **Private Sessions**_

* * *

 _ **Pearlana**_ _ **Singh, 36**_

 _ **Head Gamemaker**_

* * *

"What are you giggling on about over there?" I narrow my eyes at Armitage, who with reddened cheeks covers his mouth with one hand and his stomach with another.

"Within the four years of you taking up the job, I've _never_ seen you so at ease." He replies. "You were _smiling_ to yourself. I was simply wondering what prompted the change?"

Glancing out the limousine window, I watch as promotional imagery play across the various holoboards affixed to buildings on the street we drive down. It seems that every square inch is covered with flags or banners celebrating this year's Games. "It's a Quarter Quell, my darling." I reply with a small shrug. "The offer of something different would make anyone giddy."

Every Quell seems to bring on _something_ new – a _change_. A new presiding president, advances in technology that only amplify the experience of the Games...and the fact that _I_ am spearheading this change – changes that will last for years to come – is something I take great pride in.

Scooting over, he takes my hand in his, planting on it a delicate kiss. "I'm sure you'll knock _everyone_ off their feet, my love."

 _"Ms. Singh, Mr. DeWynter, we're arriving now."_ The Chauffeur's voice emits through the overhead speaker.

"I hear it all the time, yet I'm still perturbed." Armitage says, shaking his head. "Singh, Singh, Singh...Then again, I suppose _'Pearlana DeWynter_ ' is quite clunky."

As the muffled rumblings of the crowd grow stronger as the limousine slows to a halt, I reply by planting a kiss on his lips and a gentle pinch of his cheek. The business of the Capitol is _status,_ as they say. What else screams 'status' by marrying into one of the city's if not the _nation's_ most premier family? Especially that of the president's chief of staff and sibling? Although it has prestige, I need a moniker of my own lest I be eclipsed by Armitage and his tribe of proactive movers and shakers.

Armitage's hand linked with mine, we ebb our way out of the limousine and into the pandemonium that was the approach to the Training Center. If the approach today in the early morning was this raucous, how would interview night play out, I wonder? The red carpet was flanked with rabid fans and press alike, my ears flooded with their cheers and questions and my eyes twittering with each flash from their cameras. Armitage was right in that regard, the uneasiness I carry. The social aspect was never my thing. I left that to the junior Gamemakers to deal with. Despite my husband's constant assurances, I can't help but freeze in the face of all this attention. The occasional autograph requests in public were one thing, but _this_...?

"Ms. Singh, Ms. Singh, could you give us one more hint about the upcoming arena?!" cries one reporter.

"Pearl, could you tell us about the mystery Twelve girl? Some say she is linked to _Katniss Everdeen_ , is this true?!"

"Pearlana, how have the tributes performed to date?" asks a female reporter. "Should we expect high scores all around?"

I quickly glance up toward Armitage, smirking as I return my vision toward the Reporter. _Now that's a question I can answer._ "Oh yes, I believe that this year's crop of tributes will provide a diverse skill set that will fit _swimmingly_ with what I have planned."

My answer is equivalent to dangling meat over a pack of muttations, as the gaggle of reporters erupt with even more questioning. I offer them none however, as I quickly make my way into the Center Tower under stringent Peacekeeper guard. Transitioning from the voracious street into the quiet, yet expansive circular lobby, I make my way toward Melchior and Yvette, two of my trusted senior Gamemakers. As per usual the two are stuck together like glue, giggling as they huddle over a datapad, probably looking over a gossip rag or something. Yvette is the first to notice us, jabbing Melchior in the stomach as the two quickly pivot my way.

"Ah Ms. Singh, you're here!" Melchior greets, inclining his head courteously. He extends an arm to Armitage as the two shake hands. "Mr. DeWynter, it's nice to see you once again." They do this as we all press forward toward the elevator regardless. There's no time to waste, for we have a schedule to keep.

"Will the president or prime minister be joining us sometime soon?" Melchior inquires. A Peacekeeper gestures into the elevator as we enter and settle in for the ride down.

"No, unfortunately they have other matters to attend to." Armitage informs. "Such as entertaining our foreign visitors. They send their regards, though."

"That's unfortunate." My subordinate replies.

I glance toward his female counterpart. "Is everything prepared, Yvette?"

Her brown eyes alight with glee, the dark-skinned girl smiles, her neon pink updo jostling as she does. "I'll have you know that we are ready to go when you are, Ms. Singh. The VIPs are all accounted for as well."

"Brilliant."

Once we enter the spectators lounge, renovated so that it takes the form of a miniature theatre. all conversation ceases. One sharp look at Vontavius and the other Junior Gamemakers are enough to scare them away from the table of light snacks.

"Good morning everyone," I say aloud, nodding as I receive the same greeting in return. I glance toward the VIPs, Hunger Games junkies young and old lucky enough to get a front row seat to watch the inner workings. "I take it you know what's expected of you?" I ask them as I receive nods and sparse verbal replies. " _Good_. Gamemakers, I trust you have your datapads ready?"

"Yes Ms. Singh." Many of them reply.

Nodding, I take the first row center seat with Armitage by my side as my colleagues follow suit. Vi and Pax appear before me, offering a bow and a curtsy respectively.

"All functions on our end are ready to be executed," Vi begins.

"And all tributes are ready for examination." Pax finishes.

With a sigh, I recline into my seat. "Let's get this show on the road then."

* * *

With confusion obvious in her expression, Sarissa Levesque eyes the spectator box as she strides into the room. Still, with that confusion she carries a straight-backed confidence that only a Two could hold.

"Just roll with it, Miss Levesque." I assure her. Exchanging curt nods, we watch the Two female head towards an obstacle course. Renovations allow this state-of-the-art course to be on its own, prompting the spectators to turn their attention to a widescreen. Exchanging a few words, Sarissa is off once she gets the go-ahead from an observing trainer. Sarissa doesn't break a sweat, vaulting and sliding over and under emplacements as she rushes to the next set. It's when she gets to the monkey bars that things get difficult, as the fans underneath her threaten to blow her off course, but Sarissa soldiers on. With little difficulty she barrels through the elevating platforms, intensified by the 'earthquake' that rattles the set. She quickly adapts as the floor under her turns to ice, finishing off the course with a series of vaults all while treading the glassy surface.

"What a flawless display." Armitage murmurs as the VIPs titter with glee.

I nod. "A flawless show, yes, but not as fast as tributes before her."

Instead of heading towards the weapons Sarissa then opts for more technical showcases, such as kindling, rock climbing and even trapping...all of which are done in that 'Career' standard we're used to but _beyond_ that.

"Here we go, finally onto some _action."_ I hear someone say behind me, as Sarissa selects a bundle of spears and a knife. A team of trainers are on her instantly, placing 'pressure points' on various parts of her body and leave just as quickly as they came.

"What are they doing?" asks Armitage, leaning into my ear.

"Simply giving the tributes a taste of what's to come." I reply with a smirk.

"Beginning simulation." Vi chimes aloud.

Her body hunched at a 'ready' stance, Sarissa carefully eyes the room as a cubed holographic figure appears from a corner, armed with a mace. The figure barely got off to a start before a spear whistles though the air and enters its chest, dissolving it. Next appear two, each armed with swords. Sarissa strides forward to meet the first, casually dodging its swing and jutting her spear into its throat. With a twirl, she blocks the strike of the second dummy with the base of her spear, jutting the sword upward while using one tip of the spear to skate across its chest followed by a deeper impale for the kill.

I can't help but smirk along as the audience 'ooh and 'ah' with excitement.

Those sounds of captivation quickly morph into gasps as three dummies armed with spears appear from different corners. One dummy lobs its spear, connecting with Sarissa's 'pressure patch' located on her wrist, 'disabling' her as she lets out a startled cry. Without hesitation, the Two female retrieves a knife from her waist and lobs it at the charging dummy, catching it in the forehead as it drops to its knees and dissolves. Just as the two remaining dummies appear to skewer Sarissa, she does the splits, prompting one to kill the other while the other one remains 'wounded'. With a holographic spear jutting though its chest, Sarissa recovers from her splits, sweeping the leg of the final dummy and jabbing the knife through its head as it implodes into tiny yellow pixels.

The applause from the VIPs and Gamemakers alike prompts the young woman from Two to crack a grin as she delivers a curtsy and promptly leaves the room.

"If that's not the prime definition of 'Victor', I don't know what is!" chimes a member of the audience.

I just continue to grin, inputting my data onto my tablet.

Straight-lipped and unassuming, Solomon strides in nonchalantly and takes his place in the middle of the gymnasium. "Good Morning. I'm Solomon Kohli, District Two male."

I nod. "Please, begin however you like Mr. Kohli."

And so he does, quickly moving over to the plant identification – something Careers rarely lean toward. He completes it with a solid _B_ , which is something most of his predecessors barely achieve. He moves to the camping section, and while using prefabricated pieces makes a shrub-based tent. This tent then goes through various tests, as the vents around the structure spew out wind, rain and snow. He garners generous applause when he utilizes paint and foliage among other things to create effective camouflage. Using our miniature biome changer, he blends into the snow, derelicts and forests _swimmingly_. His running of the obstacle course was decent enough.

Selecting a bow and arrow, he opts for a showcase of targeting. Where Levesque was partial to a spear, Solomon was more than at home with archery. One target, two targets, three targets, all in the same circular shape, Kohli quickly dispatches them in a way that likens him to a machine. He even causes the crowd to ooh when he takes out two targets on the opposite side of the same wall with two separate arrows.

"He is definitely well-rounded, someone to lookout for." Armitage says.

* * *

"The fact that we have _three_ Peacekeepers this year is something I look forward to very much." Armitage says to me.

I shake my head. "Ms. Novakova and Mr. Marcenas served in the _Navy._ It's not as strenuous as the Army or the Expeditionary Force."

"But it's the _military_ all the same. It has to count for something."

The tribute in question ignores us entirely as she enters, exhaling deeply as she moves toward the camping section where she perfects her kindling and snaring. If she were to face a dilemma regarding poisonous fauna, she'd be a hit or a miss at best.

She then moves to the agility section, surprising myself and the audience by equipping a rucksack and filling it with an assortment of gear. It makes her display with the gauntlets all the more impressive as she nimbly makes her way through the set on top of the added obstacles. A few trips here and there followed by a quick recovery serve as a minor blemish.

Instead of the holographic targets, Nautia opts for a human partner in the form of a trainer fitted with extra padding that 'bled' with each strike. Choosing a bowie knife that doubles as a utility tool, she squares off against the stun baton-armed trainer. The trainer begins by closing the distance immediately with a downward swing, which Nautia quickly sidesteps while taking her knife and dragging it across his exposed forearm, drawing enough 'blood' that it could be considered serious if it were a real wound. The trainer responds with another swing, connecting with Nautia's temple which prompts the Four female to yelp with pain while reeling backward. The trainer doesn't let up though, closing the distance once again as the two engage in a vigorous dance which earns the trainer various wounds. A stiff backhand causes her to drop and a firm kick to the thigh prompts the trainer to join Nautia on the ground, ending her session with a stalemate. It was obvious in her skill that she has Career training of sorts.

After helping the trainer off the ground, Nautia ends the session with a curtsy, leaving the gym floor to her district partner who struts out with a smile and a wave.

"Hello, hello ladies and gents!" purrs the young man. "I'm Warren Holt, District Four male reporting as ordered."

A stern gaze from yours truly is enough to quell the cacophony of aroused giggles and chatter from both the spectators and Gamemakers alike. "You may go ahead with your demonstration, Mr. Holt." I tell him gently.

"And that _I will,_ ma'am." He replies gingerly while moving to the weapons rack and selecting the usual trident. To our collective surprise – _and delight_ – Mr. Holt relieves himself of his top to reveal a toned torso common for a young man of his district.

"If it's all the same to you Ma'am," he begins, his smirk growing as the fawning over him continues. "I prefer to work out _without_ the extra layering?"

Looking over Armitage's blank expression, an amused smirk and a subtle wave of the hand is all that needs to be done as he gets right into his routine. He starts off with a series of stretches followed by a decent run of the gauntlet course. The rumblings of desire are mum when he moves into the more sedentary survival courses which he performs to a satisfactory degree, most noticeably his _knots_ and the netting that results from them.

He tossed a few knives here and there to reasonable success. However his harpoon and trident throwing were obviously top-notch, with him being able to launch one from one end of the gym to the next and still hit a stationary dummy.

Returning to his trident, he proceeds to perform a few stances and attack patterns for all of us to see. Only his grunts were audible as he jousts his trident rapidly in any given direction following an elaborate twirl. He was coated in a _wonderful_ sheen of sweat that seemed to make his skin glisten ever so subtly and...

Fingers snap in my vision, pulling me out of my gaze. I offer a less-than-amused Armitage a close-lipped smile, and then glance around the room proper.

Everyone else seems to be caught in the same trance as I. Most noticeably Yvette attempting to fan herself while Melchior looks like he's about to burst out of his skin with his legs crossed _tightly_ and his suit jacket splayed over his crotch.

We're saved by the bell that ends Mr. Holt's session.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Holt!" I say, ignoring the gaze of my husband. "Next!"

* * *

Adjusting her cat-eye glasses, Zahira shoots us a cautious glance while making her way towards the survival station. She motions for a trainer, who dutifully responds to her call. She then proceeds to dress him up in various bandage styles and splints depending on the wound in question. Another trainer would critique her work, and each time he would give two thumbs up in approval.

While typing up preliminary opinions, I watch as she then makes her way to the weapons. She selects _wire_ of all things and uses it to strangle a synthetic dummy. Although with all that thrashing around, she'd have to fight harder not to be countered and killed _herself_.

"...Is that a _real_ human?" Armitage whispers into my ear, all while watching a startled Zahira as the trainers drag the dummy away. "There's no eyes, no mouth..."

"Don't you read your memos? _Yes_ , flash cloned human targets." I trill in reply. " _Perfect_ for trialing traps and muttations. We expect to fully introduce them to the training sessions _next year_."

"I see..."

Zahira then moves on to knives. She's a somewhat poor thrower but her up close skill is marginally better. She makes up for her lack of strength with moxie instead. The bell rings and a rather disheveled Zahira quickly adjusts herself back to the state she entered in, taking her eyeglasses back from a trainer and fixing them onto her face once more before walking away.

"I quite like her librarian look." Armitage says with a casual air about him. His eyes don't dare meet mine. "It accentuates her _feistiness_."

If I rolled my eyes any harder I would need a doctor. "So _spiteful_." I bite back.

Theilian offers a nod and a polite wave as he enters the gym, smiling at his partner as she leaves. He heads straight for the harpoon gun. He manages to get some decent groupings no matter what the distance. When it comes to the holographic targets, he could use some work in getting a clean kill. I glance around as my fellow Gamemakers mutter amongst themselves with slight disapproval in their tones. Anyone could shoot a gun. Maybe he could showcase something more _tangible_.

"If the reaping showcased anything, Caldron isn't a man of overt action." Armitage comments with a hand on his jaw.

I can't say I don't agree, as I watch the Six male spar with a trainer using a spear...to less than satisfactory results. Even in a 'safe' environment such as this, he juts the spear out hesitance and remains on the defence throughout the entirety of the match. When it comes to 'killing' a dummy, Mr. Caldron could barely force himself to pierce its chest. However, His overall fitness is good, as he makes a decent run of the gauntlet with added weight. When it comes to the technical aspects of the Games, making shelter, creating fire and even _gardening_ surprisingly _,_ he performs above the station of a typical Sixer.

"He's going to have to shed himself of that reluctance fast." I say, nodding as the man from Six offers a bow and leaves the room.

* * *

The 'fanfare' so to speak picks up as soon as Alana strides toward the center of the gym.

"Hello." She greets over the audible murmurs. "Alana Oskoii, District 8."

I gesture towards the gym in its entirety, to which the renowned author quickly descends upon the excess material at the survival station. She quickly grabs up a net and wire, only to stop at the paints. She quickly slathers on a mixture of greens and browns, bunching up the net and the excess materials as she makes a beeline towards the indoor trees and foliage. For five minutes we watch as the author, utilizing all available materials, constructs a trap between two trees – covered by leaves.

She beckons over two trainers, presenting her work like a game show model does a prize. "Who wants to be my guinea pig?"

Exchanging shrugs, the female trainer bites, offering a running start toward where the trap lays. One foot entering the trap's radius was all it took for the net to launch the trainer into the air, belly up. This earns applause from my fellow spectators, causing the woman from Eight to offer a shy curtsy before aiding the other trainer in setting his partner free.

"Have you read her file?" I ask my husband, watching as the author takes her leave to polite applause.

"Yes I have." He replies with a grin. "Though I still can't help but be surprised."

Alana is replaced by Russett as the two exchange smiles. He offers a glance toward us as I gesture for him to go on with his performance. Swiping up a bandolier of practice knives, when a trainer moves to set up the static dummies, the man from Eight opts for the _VR Room_ instead, prompting rumbles of curiosity as everyone focuses their attention to the holoscreen that takes up the viewing window.

A single nod from Russett is all it takes for the trainer to begin the simulation.

The dummies appear slowly, and Russett throws his knives in kind utilizing slow, precise throws. Gradually, the dummies increase in difficulty rather it in speed or 'attacking' themselves. By the twentieth and final dummy, you could see that the constant bobbing and weaving and throwing have caught up to Russett as it takes three knives to render the dummy to pixilated dust. Nonetheless, applause from the booth prompts the man to smile sheepishly as moves on to the workbenches.

"Not bad." Armitage remarks with a small grin on his lips. "Not _Career-tier_ , but certainly something to regard."

"He's been working with those knives for the majority of his time here." I reply in agreement. "A little dedication can go a long way..."

The balcony murmurs with confusion, watching as Russett fidgets with a chemical workbench while mixing one concoction with another. Once he sticks the cloth in the mouth of the bottle the entire room, me included, rush to the edge while Russet assembles some dummies together in a group. Using a lighter, he lobs the bottled substance into the air and towards the dummies.

It shatters over them with seemingly no effect, only for the cluster of dummies to burst into flames a second after. I can't help but smirk.

"I could make something else if you want?" Russett says aloud to joyous applause. The trainers are on the scene immediately, dousing the fire as quickly as it started.

My eyes focused on my holopad as I input information, I wave dismissively with my free hand. "No thank you, Mr. Gilmour. You're relieved for the day."

"And to think we teach them about chemicals starting in _elementary school_." Says Armitage.

* * *

"Hello," Laelia greets with a polite smile and wave. Once she catches whiff of the burnt rubber her face scrounges into a frown. "I am Laelia Alvarado, District Ten..."

"You may begin, Ms. Alvarado." I reply to the young woman.

After turning toward and speaking to a trainer, the female from District 10 quickly slips on a rucksack and collects a spade from the assortment of weapons.

"A shovel?" Armitage asks with a raised brow.

"Why not?" I reply with a shrug. "It's no _ordinary_ shovel, however."

When Armitage opens his mouth once more, I shush him, nodding over to the obstacle course where Laelia is about to be underway. When the trainer prompts her, she's off. Even with the additional weight, the young woman maneuvers quickly, bobbing and weaving through the various impediments thrown her way. The raised platforms, open 'flames', she was barely perturbed. When she swings on the rope across a pool of water to finish, three gel dummies greet her as she lands. The dummy in the middle earns a swing to the head, rendering it bent, the one of the left earns a strike to the forehead, cracking and peeling it to the side. Laelia activates the buzz saw mode of her 'spade', jamming it into the midsection of the dummy on the right, only to use her boot to pry it off. This all earns her fair applause.

I input my remarks into my holopad. The timing was decent, but anyone of her age could run a gauntlet like that.

To top it all off her survival skills are nominal, plant recognition, food preparation, temporary shelters, which then make for a nominal tribute.

"Thank you, Laelia, you may leave now." I say to her.

Usually, the district partner is crossing paths with the person who was recently dismissed...but Mr. Emmanuel Cade seems to be slow. No matter, I'm sure he'll be on his way out shortly.

However, 'shortly' turned into five minutes of no District 10 male.

"Ma'am," says a trainer as he rushes to the center of the gym. "We can't seem to locate Emmanuel Cade. Ms. Alvarado says he came down with her..."

I shake my head. "That's ludicrous...where else could he _possibly_ be?"

"Maybe he has stage fright?" Armitage muses, earning a round of chuckles. Those chuckles are immediately stifled by a cry of "Look out!" from a fellow Gamemaker. I hear it and see it, an object whistling through the air as it hits the force field protecting the balcony – shattering the projectile into thousands of charred bits before being carried away by the wind. Flabbergasted, we all rush to the edge to see a figure peeking out from the ceiling foliage. They are armed with a bow and _waving_ at us.

"Good morning." Emmanuel greets. His face and hands coated with paint to camouflage himself. "My apologies for the scare, Ms. Starling advised that I should make my session count to the fullest."

"How long have you been up there?" I ask the young man.

"Since everything began." He says casually. He begins to make his way back to the trees and onto the floor again.

"So you've seen everything your opponents have been doing up till now?"

"Of course, as I've been doing for the past four days." He replies casually, strolling towards the archery station. He has everyone eyeing him now, silent with awe. As he practices shooting, _never_ missing a target or shooting the outer ring, he details all the alliance dichotomies, the strengths and weaknesses of each tribute and what that means for him. Even as he moves onto the survival station and perfects the herbs and a few snares, he never stops analyzing.

"And what does all this mean for you, Mr. Cade?" I ask, inputting my remarks as he sets up a tray with rows of plastic cups. I get a closer look when an Avox brings the tray up here for us to inspect. It's _tea_ that smells of berries. They all watch as I take the first sip. _It's good._ Everyone takes a sip after that, sharing similar feelings.

"It means that I have my work cut out for me. However, I have no inhibitions to hold me back from seeing myself through." He replies finally, pivoting on his feet and making his way toward the exit. "Enjoy the tea."

"Good luck to you, Emmanuel." I say with a raised cup over the applause.

With the tea finished and myself feeling a lot more _grounded,_ I immediately adjust my seating as Veradisia saunters into the gymnasium with a collected poise so unlike females from her district.

Here we are...the woman on _everyone's_ mind.

* * *

"Good morning." She says curtly while performing a curtsy. "Vera Smith, District 12."

A raised hand is enough to stifle the murmurs that brew behind my back. My other hand gestures to the gym at-large, prompting the girl to go on and perform. Everyone – myself included, albeit in a 'smarter' fashion – rush to the balcony to watch as the girl goes over the various weapons on the rack.

"Did you ever take HG 100 in uni?" I ask Armitage.

"Pol major, I kinda had to." He replies. "What, are you trying to pinpoint an angle? Let me guess, the ' _Everdeen' archtype?"_

I nod. "With a hint of ' _Dark Horse'_."

I turn my attention back to our _little problem_ as she spars with a trainer while utilizing a rapier. While the trainer uses heavier, more intimidating movements, Vera is keen to striking at opportune moments, as seen by the beads trickling out of the trainers shin guards and other places often overlooked in a combat situation.

She's nothing like a Career, but her skill would make someone quirk a brow given her status. We already know she's a rule-breaker. But what does she _honestly_ think she's getting at? Ever since she strode up the steps of her Hall of Justice in that miners uniform, I've been wracking my brain on what type of angle she was playing. She won't get by me, even with her gaggle of _washed-up failed rebels_ by her side.

She's obviously up to something, eyeing us casually as she runs the gauntlet and performs well in the survival stations.

"Thank you, Ms. Smith. You're dismissed." I announce dryly.

"Thank you for the opportunity ma'am." Vera replies with a curtsy. "Hopefully I've performed to your standard."

"And?" says Armitage, watching as the young woman turns to make her leave.

"I'm glad she has passable skill. At least then she has a fighting chance at defending herself if she happens upon a random pack of mutts." I sniff in reply, earning a chortle of laughter from him.

Kaviraya Parathi cuts an odd figure, balling and caressing his hands as he enters the gym proper. He gives us a timid glance before making his way towards the weapons, selecting a bunch of axes. Using silhouetted dummies as targets, he lobs ax after ax towards them. Some hit while some miss the mark _entirely_. And of those who found their mark, they would be a maim shot rather than a kill shot. And Kaviraya _knows_ this, shooting us a glance with a frown on his lips. With one ax in hand, he stalks toward a gel dummy. With much more fervor, he strikes the dummy multiple times with impressive technique. A quick strike to the neck and then the head followed up with multiple rapid chops to the chest. The dummy was unrecognizable after that display.

Surprised by his actions, seemingly, Kaviraya lets out a sigh while turning towards the survival stations. He starts a fire in rapid time, ties a snare that could dangle an opponent by the ankle and identifies most plants and edible insects to round off his time.

"You're dismissed Mr. Parathi." I say to him, imputing my remarks into my holopad. Where I despised the _Everdeen Archetype_ , I always did appreciate _his_ archetype. When push comes to shove, they often shove... _hard_. It's as if they're an _entirely_ different person.

* * *

"Donna Cordillera?" I ask, glancing down toward the woman standing before us.

"You can call me Ludra." She smiles back in reply.

I offer a non-committal nod. "You may begin your private session."

First of the older tributes, I'm surprised when she starts off with the gauntlet. Her timings are below standard, even with some instances of tripping or getting caught up in the traps. However I can't knock her not giving up.

Her combat skills are also subpar. Although her skills with a crossbow are surprisingly good, with her hitting the inner ring constantly. And her skills with a knife are brow-raising, as we watch her nearly disembowel a gel torso. I'll credit that to potential civil defense training many people on Snow Island conduct. With them being on Panem's territorial fringes, they have to be ready for incursions. Otherwise, her knife strikes sloppy and would hurt rather than outright kill or put someone out of commission.

There is one thing however, that catches my eye. During her final minute, Ludra finds herself at a chemical workbench, putting together a concoction. After writing something down on a piece of paper and pointing towards me, she takes her leave toward the exit.

"A rather disappointing show don't you think?" asks Armitage, nodding his head toward the various Gamemakers and VIPs who seem to have little interest. "Considering previous years, Snow Island usually has lot of zeal, not so much this time around."

The concoction and supporting note make its way up to me. Upon further inspection, it seems that Ludra offered me an _ingredient list,_ the contents of which prompt my lips to twitch into a smile.

I pass the findings on to Armitage as the other Gamemakers gather around. "Not every tribute is an ax-swinging brute, darling." I say, watching as _another_ tribute of interest stomps in. "Some are the dubious coaster..."

 _Retired Navy Lieutenant Ricardo Marcenas is something else entirely._ We eye each other now as he marches to the center of the gym with a _chair_ in tote. He unfolds it, sits down and watches us with his one good eye. Where I smirk at his ignorance, his scowl runs deep. He knows what he _is_ and what he _wants_ to do. We can't say he's a man of weak will.

"He's _no fun_." A Gamemaker grumbles.

"We should just kill him off now!" shouts another, earning cheers of approval.

"I've read his file." Armitage whispers to me. "With what he and his father did, during the War, I'm surprised they didn't _kill them_."

"President Snow had one foot in the grave. His substitutes were far more forgiving of error." I say, as Gamemakers and VIPs alike begin to jeer at the man below.

" _"Error"_? More like _insubordination_." He retorts. "What did _Viondra_ say to you? Montresor?"

"What else but the _obvious?_ " I reply with a shrug. There's no use getting _upset_. Let him have his tantrum, for it doesn't _change_ anything. That's the thing with these... _rebels,_ they drag _everyone_ near and dear down with them, but they're too _blind_ to see it.

"Miss Singh, lunch is here!" calls Yvette, pointing towards the Avoxes and the carts of food being wheeled in. The jeers immediately turn into cheers as their attention turn toward the smoked turkey and sweet potato among other things.

"Let's get something to eat, dear." I trill lightly, my eyes never leaving Ricardo's as I rise out of my seat. "Something tells me he won't be moving anytime soon."

* * *

I'm relieved to see that Ricardo's ugly mug is gone, replaced by the young-faced Wondr'a Okafor of District 11.

I gesture toward the gym at-large. "Hello Ms. Okafor, welcome. Please begin your session."

Wondr'a immediately goes toward the survival stations. Within two minutes she's one of dozens of tributes to perfect the plant, berry and insect identification with _no_ answers wrong. Her snares are impeccable, fire starting – just as quick as Kaviraya's timing but with multiple methods. Using a synthetic dummy, she quickly slices it open along the leg and patches it back up again, not before using a homemade salve to staunch the bleeding. The binds that she used to bandage the wound are still pristine white – no bleed through whatsoever. The murmurs of amazement prompt the woman to blush.

"Do you have any _combat_ experience, Miss Okafor?" I ask over the polite applause. Wondr'a cringes at the word 'combat', but begrudgingly strolls to the survival station, selecting scraps of wood. Within five minutes time, she presents _multiple_ knives, prompting the balcony to rumble with intrigue. Using poisonous berries, she juices them, slathers the mixed liquid onto the knives then moves toward the silhouetted dummies. Snow and precise with her movements, of the ten she throws only _six_ hit and only one of them would kill...but with the poison, that doesn't really matter. She then selects the same chainsaw-blade-shovel that Laelia selected, attacking two gel dummies. Although the attacks were halfhearted, just one swing from that combat spade is enough to ruin one's day. She turns around and shrugs, finished with her session.

"You may leave, Wondr'a." I tell her, inputting my remarks into my holopad. She seems to be a volunteer with no purpose...which is sad because if she had one, she'd definitely perform well with that skill set of hers.

With a polite wave, Wondr'a leaves the scene, replaced by Linden Norton. He immediately goes to work, selecting a sickle and getting a trainer to set the dummies up for him. With enthusiasm he quickly attacks each dummy lined up for him. The sickle is an extension of him, as he performs deep slashes into their chests, necks and heads until a miniature lake of blood pools around his carnage. This prompts rowdy cheers from our audience. Emboldened by this, he challenges a trainer to hand-to-hand combat, giving the trainer a run for their money, but ultimately the display was a stalemate with the edge being given to the trainer. Of the males we've seen he's definitely one of the more physically adept as he offers us a session of weightlifting. He rounds off his session with a fair display of survival skills, on par of that of many tributes from his district prior.

"I believe that's all I have to show." Linden says.

"Thank you Mr. Norton for your _surprising_ display." I reply over polite applause. "You may leave."

* * *

The balcony, the women specifically, break out into murmurs as Aurelia Baudelaire enters the gymnasium with a nervous look about her.

"Aurelia Baudelaire, District One." She announces evenly.

"Please, go ahead." I say to her.

She starts with the gauntlet first, and makes good time. Nothing Sarissa Levesque or Laelia Alvarado tier, however. She then hops right into the survival stations, crafting decent slings with a trainer serving as a model for her. She tries _everything_ from hammock making to identification to snares. All are above average with _plenty_ of room to improve.

She moves onto the combat stations, and carries the same 'Jack-of-all-trades' attitude throughout. Throwing knives and axes need improvement. Her skill in using them in the traditional way shows promise. Usually, people stick to one weapon and if they swap mid-Games, their technique is clumsy. Aurelia here will probably not have a problem with that.

"Did you attend Edenthew by any chance?" I knew the answer, judging by how their gubernatorial elections went. If it were up to her, Edenthew Academy would be burnt to the ground.

"No," Aurelia replies simply. "However I _was_ tutored for a month or two, _recently_ at that."

" _Ah_."

After displaying some static skill, she moves onto the mat with an armor-clad trainer for close-quarters combat, bringing only a spear and a poniard against his staff. Exchanging a mutual nod, the trainer holds nothing back, jutting his staff toward her stomach. She swats it away and thrusts toward his chest, connecting as it tears the armor slightly producing some red beads. Surprised but heartened, Aurelia continues on the attack, thrusting her spear vigorously and driving a defensive trainer all the way back to his edge of the mat.

The advantage swaps, however, as Aurelia's spear is caught by the trainers hand, and a rough tug is all it takes to unhand her of it. The trainer drops his spear. Aurelia immediately withdraws her poniard and thrusts it downward with both hands prompting the trainer to capture the hilt of the dagger in his. Aurelia's small stature is no match for the burly trainer, as a boot to the stomach sends her careening to her end of the mat with a pained cry.

The trainer stalks over to Aurelia's fallen form. He – _and we_ – weren't expecting the One female to spring up and launch her foot straight into his groin, to the exclamation of everyone watching. The armor did no justice as the trainer immediately crumples to the ground.

"A feisty one, isn't she?" Armitage smirks.

"When she _wants_ to be, it seems." I reply, inputting my data once more. As Aurelia stomps out, I motion down to the trainers who rush to aid their friend. "Let him sit that one out...!"

Thames strolls onto the gym floor, frowning as he watches the trainer from prior being aided out by his compatriots.

"Never mind that Mr. Montgolia," I say to the young man with a dismissive wave. "Please, begin your session."

"Of course!" he beams politely, bowing. "As you already know, I am Thames Montgolia of District One."

He begins right there in the center of the gymnasium with some stretches, followed by one hundred repetitions of pushups and goes over to the weight machines for one hundred pull-ups, all done in rapid succession and little signs of fatigue, earning the adoration of the women in the audience.

A slight kick in the shin is Armitage's attempt to keep me in check. He earns a poke in the eye as retaliation.

Thames briskly jogs over to the weapons rack, selecting a katana while setting up a gauntlet with gel dummies, each armed with a rubber bat. On top of contending with the various moving pieces of this gauntlet, Thames expertly dispatches each dummy in-between with a series of slashes and decapitations. All of which were completed in respectable time.

When it came time to the VR room, it seemed he was having a little _too_ much fun, dispatching dozens upon dozens of dummies, most notable of which was using a dummy as a shield by gripping it by the neck...that sure garnered plenty of applause.

Where Aurelia did the Jack-of-all-trades approach, Thames did it better, with almost near perfect skill. Knives, spears, other sword types were all utilized.

Armed with rubber knives, he engages in sparring with an armor-clad trainer while Thames himself is unprotected. The two grown men morph themselves into a tangled ball of flesh in an attempt to one-up the other. Out of the four bouts, Thames clearly had the upper hand by either dragging the knife across the trainers throat, or immobilizing his hands long enough to get the knife into his chest multiple times. They're about to go for another bout when I call for them to stop.

"Thank you for that display, Mr. Montgolia." I say, offering slight applause in addition to those around me.

In typical District 1 fashion, after aiding the trainer off the ground, Thames offers a bow. "Thank _you_ for allowing me to do so, Ma'am."

* * *

Maia walks in next, her eyes roaming the expanse of the gauntlet course. "I'm assuming that nothing has changed in regards to the obstacle course?"

"Everything is exactly the same." I reply to her. "Why do you ask?"

"The current parameters are _boring."_ Maia replies. "I wanna up the ante a little bit. Do you have things to hit me with?"

"Unless you want to become a human _pincushion,_ I don't think so." Melchior jokes, earning amused snickers from our fellows.

A trainer jogs to Maia's side, a red ball in the crook of his arm. He gestures to it. "We have medicine balls, Ma'am?"

Glancing around the viewing room and acknowledging the looks of approval, I turn toward Maia and the trainer. "...Go on, Miss Clear."

It only takes a minute for all the trainers to assemble a couple of feet before the course, each armed with a number of medicine balls as Maia takes her place. One of the trainers yells for her to begin and she sure does, darting towards the elevated steps only to backtrack as a flurry of balls whiz before her. When she gets to the ropes one would think that she'd surely get hit at least _once_ , but no, Maia swings back and forth while sometimes backtracking only to swing forward again. She maintains this pace until she reaches the end of the gauntlet – a straight sprint to the finish. Of all the trainers, _none_ of them thought to conserve their 'ammo'.

"Thanks." She says aloud under thunderous applause, although her eyes stay affixed to mine. I'm the only opinion that matters, apparently. With a chalice in hand, I raise it in approval, causing the young woman's smile to grow.

In typical District 3 fashion, Maia makes a beeline toward the survival stations. Although slower than Miss Okafor, she makes the list of the few tributes able to perfect the identification game. Her splints and casts are also good, alongside the basic fire, shelter, food prep, knots and surprisingly _camouflage_. Like Emmanuel, she can climb trees fairly well.

"How about some weapons demonstrations, Miss Clear?" I ask her, smirking as she freezes in place. Like Wondr'a, she seems to have a reluctance to fight. If anything, my coaxing will do nothing but help her once we begin for real.

"Oh yeah, of course..." she replies, wringing her hands as she makes her way towards the weapons station. Her hand glides across the various knives on display, but doesn't pick one outright. She spends a minute frozen in place before pivoting towards the spears, selecting a _javelin_ of all things. One silhouetted dummy is brought out and lit up red. Heaving the weapon, she offers me one last glance, to which I reply with a curt nod.

She lets the rod fly, whistling through the air as it nails the dummy in the chest.

Maia gets flustered by the applause but quickly continues. Launching javelin after javelin as one dummy appears after the next. Some hit, but don't kill while some do. Others miss their mark entirely. But that doesn't matter. _As long as she shows intent_ , that's what counts.

"That's all I have, thank you." Maia says, turning to face the balcony.

I glance up from my holopad. "Thank _you_ Miss Clear. We look forward to your performance in the Games."

Offering a tight smile, she pivots on her heels and makes her way towards the exits.

"You'd think that normal tributes would join a team or something..." says Armitage. "To gain the skills she has?"

I shrug, watching now as Tobias Ledger casually makes his way into the room, a goofy smile on his lips with his hands casually tucked into his pockets as if he were a teenager rather a _grown man._

"You guys are _really_ changing things up this time 'round..." he says, glancing around the gymnasium.

"Mister Ledger," I purr aloud, watching as the gentleman glances up my way. "I'm _surprised_ you didn't dress up as an Avox and _eavesdrop_ on your competition."

He lets out a cackle. "What made you get that idea!?"

I wave my datapad into the air for him to see, causing the man to cackle even harder. With a sigh, he places his hands on his hips.

"What to do, what to do..." he says aloud, pacing. "Being the eldest guy of the bunch, my options are very limited, as you may already know."

Offering no answer, I watch as he shrugs and moves towards the weapons rack, selecting a _trident...Interesting._ Coming back to the center of the gym, he makes a show of waving the weapon around in various poses and strikes. Where Warren Holt performed them with poise, there was _absolutely nothing_ sophisticated about Mr. Ledger's display. Especially when you add those _silly_ war cries he makes while doing them.

Noticing our discontent, he shrugs with that stupid smile still plastered on his face. " _What_...?"

"You know _what_ , Mr. Ledger." I drawl incredulously. "Perhaps you could do something a little more _substantial_?"

" _No promises._ " He replies with a playful trill. He arms himself with his trident in one hand and a flail in the other, taking them over to a set up of gel dummies.

"Ready...here we go!" With that stupid war cry of his he plunges his trident into the gut of the first dummy, whipping his flair onto its head. And then with a twirl, he thrusts the trident into the neck of the second, followed by another twirl which causes the flail to strike the dummy in the head, felling it. For the third, he leaps forward with yet another cry...looking like an _absolute fool_ as he interchanges between thrusting and whacking the dummy on the head with the weapons in question.

"Aaaaaaaaaaah, die, die, dieeeeeeeee!" he yells.

It starts with Armitage stifling a laugh, and then numerous people burst out laughing. A stern scan around the room by yours truly is enough to shut them up. "Mr. Ledger, how about you show me that you aren't _totally useless_ by putting down those weapons and showcasing some survival techniques?"

"Since you asked so nicely..." he snorts, stifling his own laughter as he drops the weapons and casually strolls over to the survival stations. It's there where he actually shows some competence, be it in identifying some plants, playing a memory game or making a basic fire.

"Thank you, Mr. Ledger." I say with a sigh whilst massaging my temples. "You're finished for today."

"Hopefully I served as a highlight of your day." He replies with a bow.

* * *

I immediately perk up when Dr. Tuesday Suetos strolls into the room. Adjusting her glasses, she shoots casual glances toward the balcony, as she makes her way towards the weapons and selects a bowie knife. She then retrieves two, full-length gel dummies and wheels them out on a vertical display and places them in the center for us to see. The imposing knife trails gently across the first dummy.

"As you might already know, there are several major arteries in the human body that are vital to our survival. We have the _carotid, radial, brachial, femoral and popliteal_ arteries for example." She says, pointing to and slashing the areas detailed. Blood flows uncontrollably onto the floor, pooling at Tuesday's boots. Ignoring that, on top of the gasps of shock, Tuesday continues.

"I'd imagine that if I were faced with a combat scenario, those would be the targets of interest. It's always about the midsection and in the Games, it doesn't really matter where you strike per se. But, the aforementioned areas are often _woefully_ unguarded."

She pivots to the second dummy, taking a combative stance before quickly swiping at the vital points while bobbing and weaving, creating a second pool of blood and to top it all off, she rakes the knife across the belly, effectively disemboweling it.

"I'd like to believe my profession, as well as the nimbleness of a knife, would allow me to perform these strikes effectively. I have moderate fitness, I can make a fire and I'm smart enough to know what and what _not_ to put in my mouth. It'd be a boring death anyway. With all that said and done, may I take my leave?"

The balcony is silent. All I could do was nod. " _Yes_ , you may. Thank you for the... _descriptive_ presentation."

"You're welcome. I apologize for the mess." Tuesday replies. The doctor then turns and makes her way toward the exit with bloodied footprints in her wake.

The male, Geronimo Busan, enters the gym just as the Avoxes begin their cleanup of Tuesday's display.

"The Doctor is a weird character..." Geronimo muses, his eyes never leaving the trail of bloody footprints.

"Fortunately for her, we _enjoy_ eccentricity here in the Capitol." I say to him. "Ignore the mess, please. You may start when ready."

He nods, making his way over to the survival stations. "Sure thing, Miss. How about we start off with something light..."

He starts off with fire-building. Although instead of just one type of fire for a generic woodland biome, Geronimo, utilizing the various 'plots' of tiles each with their own temperature and 'ground' creates different fires for arid, snow and swamplands.

"Working outside the confines of the district boundaries I think has given me a slight edge over my opponents." He explains, while building a log shelter for himself and the fire itself. "Sure, my venturing consists mostly of photography, but who else could say that they've ventured out into an arena-type environment?"

"A PK friend of mine taught me this one." He boasts while jostling a makeshift spear in his hands – rebar and two knives secured onto one end. He launches the spear into the gut of a gel dummy. "Knives, a pickax, take my word for it, I could make it...If I had the _sponsors_ that is. Because with these other guys running around in that arena, I don't think I'd even _touch_ the cornucopia even if I had a _zillion foot pole_."

A couple of us chuckle at the joke. After assembling some dummies the way he wants them, he then selects a mean-looking mace, heaving the weapon in order to get a feel for it I suppose.

"Any special story behind your selection, Mr. Busan?" I ask him.

He shakes his head. "Childhood books spurred my interest. And since I'm here I thought, _why not indulge?_ "

He engages and destroys all ten dummies with various techniques. His one-handed attacks were sloppy, but his two-handed attacks were exceptional. By the end, all dummies were coated red from the inside from the damage inflicted. Geronimo bows and then leaves to generous applause.

* * *

The double-door exits burst open, startling the Peacekeepers who stand at attention beside them. Verona Kinsley stomps out onto the gym floor, rolling her shoulders while maintaining a nasty glare at us all the while.

"It's about _damn time_ I'm let out..." she grumbles. "You guys should try being _cooped up_ in a room filled with people who are training to _kill_ you."

"The Hunger Games are all about adapting to _change_ Ms. Kinsley." I reply evenly. "You can begin while you're ready."

" _Why_?"

Slowly, I glance up from my holopad. "...Pardon me?"

"What's the _point?!_ " she replies, her tone louder than before. "I'm going to die anyway. No one is sponsoring an _old bat_ like me."

" _Well_...do you want the nation at large to look at you like you're some type of _incompetent?"_ I counter, meeting her glare straight on. My features soften as I recline back into my chair, nodding. "...Though I suppose that's _right_. You're just a _useful idiot_ for Mr. Marcenas and Ms. Smith to use –"

Stomping over to the survival benches, the older woman lets out a growl, flipping over tables and flinging objects alike. I'm surprised when she heaves a log and flings it towards us, the entirety of the balcony flinching as the piece of wood strikes the force field, exploding it into cinders.

"Do you think we should end her tantrum now?" Armitage wonders, flinching as another object strikes the shield. Laying my eyes on a pair of confused Peacekeepers, I motion towards the torrent of anger that was Verona Kinsley.

"Restrain Ms. Kinsley! Before she throws out her back or something..." I command listlessly, waving a dismissive hand towards them. "At least I have _something_ to grade..." I glance at the starburst clock. "And send Mr. Samera in!"

"Oh wow..." Chris Samera exclaims with a low whistle. " _Verona_ did all this?"

I wave off his question. "Never mind the mess, Mr. Samera. Please _begin_."

"At least let me help you guys sort this out first." He interjects. Before anyone could tell him otherwise, he quickly descends into the mess that was the survival station. It was how he handled the workbenches that surprised me the most, lifting them back upright with ease when they weigh _more_ than he did.

"It ain't neat, but it's done." He announces while making a show of dusting off his hands.

"Could you lift some more things for us?" Yvette asks him.

"Yeah of course," Chris says, running to the barbells, loading it with weight and picking one up. He walks the entirety of the gym with little fatigue. "After ten years of lugging things around, not much surprises me anymore..."

"I imagine that you know your way around an ax?" I ask him, grinning as he examines the weapons rack, selecting the weapon in question.

A knowing smile envelops his face. " _Heey_...How'd you know that?"

"Instinct." I reply, reflecting his expression. Watching as he methodically renders each dummy lined up into bits and pieces. Doesn't matter the handedness of his strikes, decades of working in District 7 has accustomed him so that each blow _hurts._

* * *

Hermia Rhodes, the last of the females, is up next. Upon entering the gym proper, she takes one look at the mess and the Avoxes scrambling to clean it and then glances at me with a raised brow.

I simply shrug. "I have no worthy excuse. Please, make your way through and begin your performance."

"Fair enough," Hermia says with a small smile on her lips. Shedding her sweater, she prepares for a run around the track. "I never thought that District 9 would be the last to go today. My head is spinning with all the weird changes you guys are enacting..."

When she receives no reply other than a coy smirk from yours truly, she begins her two laps around the track. Even with her _slight_ limp, she manages to maintain a decent pace. Afterward, she selects a simple knife and a singular dummy.

"I apologize." She says. "But I'm a _practical_ woman first and foremost, so you won't be seeing me lug a scythe."

"That's fine." I reply. "At least you're willing to play your part, unlike your _allies_."

Her lips remain tight as she begins stabbing at the dummy using stances and tactics taught to her by the trainers. She alternates between the knife and a cleaver and a tomahawk, even managing to strike the dummy by tossing the tomahawk numerous times before calling it quits.

Liveliness seeps back into the room like an 'on' button when Lars Malatic struts in, his hands splayed outwards to support his cocky swagger. The men and women in the room alike twitter with glee. One glance at Yvette and a "Shush!" from her is enough to get the room to quiet.

"Saving the best for last, Miss?" He asks in that gruff parlance of his.

"You could look at it that way," I reply with a smile. "The gym is yours, Mr. Malatic."

The male from District 9 immediately gravitates towards the weight machines, a familiarity from prison perhaps? With each machine, he does twenty repetitions of at least two hundred pounds. He still has enough energy in the take to do a bout of the gauntlet with a respectable timing.

Afterwards, in typical District 9 fashion, Lars selects a machete. His form was good. His strikes were terrifyingly fast and meant business. Again, the machete being a staple in his life he _knew_ what he wanted it to do.

Speaking to two trainers as if they were best friends, the instructors quickly dawn body armor and batons while Mr. Malatic remained without protection, besides a fake spear. Right there, in the center of the gym with no mat, the three begin to spar. With no defined area, it's interesting to see how Lars uses the environment to slow down his opponents. He'd shove a workbench to the ground to stall one trainer, while focusing his attention on the isolated one. They soon move onto knives and fists, yet Lars maintained his offense and defense by forming them into a hybrid, never focusing on one person solely.

"That prison mentality is interesting to watch," An intrigued Armitage comments. "It makes me wonder if he's applied this prior."

I hum in agreement. I've read his file. Rough and tumble is all Mr. Malatic knows. I imagine it'll do him well. Rising out of my seat, I join the audience in applause as Lars moves back to the center of the gymnasium.

"Thank you Lars for your display today." I beam. "You're free to go."

"Glad you enjoyed the entertainment, Miss." He replies with a casual wave while departing.

* * *

Like giddy schoolchildren – _Snow_ , some of them _are_ – the VIPs selected for this year's viewing chirp their mouths off about their excitement as the Peacekeepers escort them out of the room.

"Remember, VIPs, keep what you learned here to _yourselves_ please!" I yell after them. The balcony is significantly more empty now, my subordinates congregating amongst themselves in groups or near the refreshments table. Some are in various states of fatigue, rubbing their eyes or yawning as they nurse coffee. I nod. _Good._ Maybe we should continue keeping the private sessions _dry_.

I take my seat beside Armitage, who wakes up from his power nap and regards me with a warm grin.

"Is my immaculate artist satisfied with her muses for her magnum opus?" he asks me.

Smirking, I regard my holopad with one manicured hand while caressing his slicked hair with another. My eyes scan the score averages so far. Chances are they'll stay this way. "I _believe_ so, yes."

It's not like we're dealing with teenagers this time around. This time, established adults are our players. Established adults who have _far more_ to lose. If that doesn't make for an exciting Games, then I don't know _what_ would.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_ **It was long, but I like giving everyone tangible time to shine so killing them isn't all that bad. Scoring is on the blog. I apologize about its state, blogspot for me is a finicky thing.

It'd be nice if more people answered my poll. 8 people... It's a good metric so far, but surely there are some others out there. Unless they aren't good enough for them to be likable. Which is fair, because they are mostly background people. I find it hard to believe that there aren't one or two victors that you thought were more noticeable (likeable).


	28. Interviews! - Part One

**_Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games_**  
 ** _Interviews! - Part One._**

* * *

 ** _Marceline Devereaux,_**

 _ **Hunger Games Master of Ceremonies**_

* * *

It all begins with a cowbell, which is then accompanied by a cuíca, a piano, the brass and the woodwinds until they _all_ form a _groovy_ theme song fit for a host such as _I_. I risk a quick glance to my cadre of floral-dressed performers behind me, exhaling while I plaster a smile onto my face.

 _It's showtime!_

In unison _,_ we enter from the upper lodge to raucous applause. Our backs hunched and our hands pawed, we scurry down the steps, only to pivot from side to side while shaking our hands as if we had maracas. We quickly transition to splaying one arm outward while working the other like a long hand of a clock, bringing it forward and in reverse. When the band reaches the crescendo, we freeze into place, my cadre's hands all splaying forward to _present_ _me..._

 _"...Your master of ceremonies, Marceline Devereaux!"_

"Well _salutations_ , Panem! Don't mind me!" I greet to fervent cheers. Letting out a cackle, I join my entourage in some tap dancing further down the steps, shimmying with a member of the audience before hopping on a banister and riding it down to the arena floor, front flipping over a guard rail into the waiting hands of some _buff_ assistants as I'm surfed to the stage.

"Ready boys, _altogether now_!" as they continue to support my weight, I back flip onto the stage proper, flowers of various species exploding from hidden pods. I splay my hands outward, presenting myself for all of Panem to see once more as the bulbs rain down onto the stage.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you for joining me here tonight on the eve of the _ONE_ _HUNDREDTH_ HUNGER GAMES! CAN YOU _BELIEVE_ THAT?!"

My ears pop as their cheers rumble through the arena.

"How lucky are we to witness such a momentous occasion within our history," I gesture to the twenty-four rustic pedestals just yards away. "Especially _here_ none the less, where it all began...Are you excited?"

More cheers rip though the arena.

"Twenty-six _mature_ tributes each with stakes _so very high_ will vie for _one_ crown – a _coveted_ one at that! We'll be meeting each and every one of them here tonight – _right now_!"

* * *

 _ **Donna Cordillera, 49**_  
 _ **Snow Island female**_

"Without further adieu, we begin the night with Snow Island! If you still have your heart out for Snow Island this time around – _which I doubt anyone still does_ – _Donna Cordillera_ is your gal! Donna, _come on out!_ "

I strut out onto the stage, waving to the audience at-large with a few blown kisses for good measure. Eccentric and down to earth, Marceline's show is _exactly_ the type of platform I need to distance myself from Ricardo and his self-destruction. Greeting the host, I draw her in with a hug and customary Isla Nieve greeting - a kiss on the right cheek.

"Hey, I'm _not complaining_ , I _love_ free love." Marceline exclaims, gesturing to her iconic teak sofa which has sat many a guest. "Please _Ludra,_ take a seat. That's what you _like_ to be called right?"

I nod, crossing one leg over the other. "That's right."

"That sweater dress looks _absolutely fab_ baby." Marceline hums, her eyes roaming from my stocking-clad leg upward to the sienna-colored dress I wear. "Oh and don't get me started on that hair."

"Gracias," I purr in reply, earning cat calls from men and women alike. "Sr. Ford chose it for me."

"Horatio Ford, what a peach that guy. Give it up for Horatio over there, _yeah you_ , I could sing your praises for days!" When we finish applauding my stylist, Marceline turns to me. " _So_ , Ludra, tell me about Snow Island, your life there, so on and so forth..."

"Life goes well back home." I reply, reclining back into the sofa as I recall the Island's beaches...Jamaica and her baby. "I work for the transportation department."

My smile falters a tad when an amused sniff escapes from Marceline. "You _could_ say _bus driver_ , you don't have to _embellish_." She says, earning the laughter of the audience "In Panem, _everyone_ has a purpose after all, am I right guys?"

My smile perks up once more when the crowd begins to applaud. "I suppose that's true."

"And everyone has _struggles_ as well..." Marceline says with a serious tone. "I heard that you had lost some people close to you?"

" _Yes_...my husband and our two babies are no longer with us." I answer with a tight face.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It was a long time ago...Enrique would want me to go on, so I do." I say to applause and light cheering. "My mother takes up most of my world now anyway."

"Tell us about mom."

"Of course, she's been – and is – quite the writer. She isn't _Alana Oskoii-_ tier," I smirk toward the audience as they chuckle. "But back home she has _thousands_ of eyes on her works. They even read her books to schoolchildren."

Marceline smiles. "Is it true that her age is getting the best of her at times?"

"Yes, her memory isn't as sharp as it once was, but she tries." I answer with a shrug. "I can't _begin_ to tell you how many times her stories have either devolved from children's to _erotica_ or romance into _horror_ because of it."

The crowd laughs once more, Marceline along with them.

"Where's she now?" she asks.

"In a convalescent home for safekeeping until..." _I die..?_

"I see, which leads us to the _here and now_." Marceline says, swiveling in her chair. "That was quite the reaping reaction, Ludra...Is Melanie okay?"

I shrug. "She should be fine. I imagine she's taken _plenty_ of knocks to the head before."

The crowd doubles over in laughter now as the cameras pan to Melanie Vasquez, our scatterbrained escort, who waves vigorously to the audience none-the-wiser. It takes Rafaela tugging her to bring her back to earth.

"We love ya Melanie, _never change."_ Says Marceline while she points and winking at the escort. "What about that district partner of yours...I've heard bits and pieces and I could only imagine how the rest of you are faring..."

I offer a playful shrug, which earns some laughs. "You're not wrong. We're doing the best we can though. Rafaela has been doing a great job keeping the team together."

The camera pans to the victor in question, who adjusts her glasses with a smirk on her lips as the crowd heaps praise upon her.

"Miss Novia has grown up _quite a lot_ over the past five years, although mentors – _and good looks_ – can only do so much _... ha ha ha._ " Marceline drawls. _A tough question was on the_ horizon. Rafaela and Melanie taught me this. I ease upward on the sofa, bracing for it. "Your chariot ride was amazing but when it comes to the nitty-gritty, you paint an average picture. For example, your training score of _five_. If you could curtail some of those doubts out there, what would you say?

"Well, as we've seen quite a lot during the past decade, those who appeared average or even _below average_ ended up with the crown." I reply without a skipping a beat.

"That's fair."

"And besides," I continue, "I'm not a confused child like a normal year might yield. I'm an adult with _plenty_ of applicable experience. I wouldn't count me out just yet, I just might have an _as_ up my sleeve that will surprise many."

"An _ace up your sleeve_ you say... _What_ , are you _hiding_ something from us now?"

My stomach stirs. "Qué?"

"Y'know, like some hidden side-gig like a _thug_ or a _serial murderer_...? That's the only ace I can see." Marceline says while rolling a hand. That smug grin never leaves her face as the audience laughs along.

"Nope." I reply, shaking my head and reflecting the grin back.

With a raised brow, her grin relaxes as she rises from her desk and strolls over to me. " _No_ , well then, here's hoping that _ace_ is put into play." Marceline places my hand into hers as we face the audience. "Let's have a round of applause for Ludra Cordillera, everyone! Ludra, I believe many people's fears have been sated...If Snow Island is your favorite, Ludra is the horse you need to back."

Curtsying, I begin to take my leave, waving to the crowd all the while.

That's right. _I am_ the one they could back. I may not like this situation _at all_ but at least I have a safety net...unlike _him._

* * *

 _ **Ricardo Marcenas, 50**_  
 _ **Snow Island Male**_

"Now Ludra's district partner on the other hand...Need I say anything that we _already_ know?" Marceline asks the audience, their jeers and laughter audible from backstage where I wait. "Let's see if we can get into that hard head of his...Here he is, Ricardo Marcenas."

I immediately want to swivel on my heels and return to the lounge. That Capitol _secuaz_ and her clapping seals – otherwise known as _the audience_ – aren't worth debating. However, when I crane my head backward to see that the Peacekeeper Officer and her lackeys are still standing guard, blocking the way out, I have no choice but to engage.

Back straight and my head held high, I enter the stage proper, ignoring the booing and jeers hurled at me by these _clowns_ and instead electing to glare at them. My eyes find the victors and escort that make up my 'team'. They all glare at me, as if _I'M_ the monster.

 _Stupid, stupid children. They're far too gone._

Marceline extends a hand my way, her toothless, shit-eating grin stretching from ear to ear.

"Why the gloomy threads?" she asks me, gesturing to my black suit. "Someone's getting ahead of themselves..."

As the crowd howls with laughter, I breeze past her, taking a seat on the couch opposite of her desk.

" _Hey_ ," Marceline says with a shrug while swiveling in her chair. " _He_ burned the olive branch, not me."

The booing continues for a couple of seconds more before Marceline calms them with a "Now now..." and a wave of the hand. "If anything, I pride myself on allowing multiple viewpoints to be discussed. Mr. Marcenas is not an exception."

"Are you sure your handlers agree with that?"

"I'm my own agent, man...if they had a problem, someone else would be here." She retorts, retaining her carefree lilt. "But they're not. Because I do my job _very_ well."

"I'm sure you do."

"Look at that, _wit_!" Marceline shoots, snapping her finger. "Who knew you had traits other than _brooding and shrewd_."

The audience lets out a racket of laughter. Part of me thinks their reaction is to _spite_ me. A moment of silence passes without any interchange. As the audience regards me with scornful gaze, some muttering amongst themselves, I turn to the 'host', who continues to eye me with that _stupid grin._

"Is this interview going to start or _what_?" I bark, glaring daggers at the woman.

Reclining in her seat, Marceline places her booted feet on top of her desk. "We've already started my friend...I don't even have to _say_ anything, the material writes itself."

"A la mierda esto..." I rise out of my seat as the _stupid_ audience chuckle themselves to death.

"And there you are folks..." Marceline says behind my back. " _Honestly_ , I expect this behavior from a tribute _forty years_ his junior. It just goes to show you that people like _that_ live among us, and the Games serve as the _only equalizer_."

I pause. If I had no sense, I'd _choke_ her until those droopy eyes of hers held no life.

The Peacekeepers from before still haven't left, eyeing me from backstage with their truncheons drawn. _So that's what this is...a mandatory roast._

"Ah, he _stopped_." She continues. "Are you gonna get back here and have a _mature_ discussion, or...?"

I turn back to face the witch. _Fine,_ if it makes it so that the nation at large can _retain_ something here tonight, _so be it._ As the crowd cheers her on, I return to the sofa.

"There you go... _take a seat_." Marceline coos with sickly edge. "Now everyone, Mr. Marcenas seems to be a _little miffed_ by his being here. _I_ will shed light on why. Now, you were an officer in the Panem Navy correct?"

I cross my arms. "That's correct."

"Now gang, here's where the history lesson begins. Ricardo here served during the Second Rebellion, with his father, who served as a commander. Back when Snow Island was an obscure – but _essential_ – territory on Panem's fringes. The rebels from the coastal districts tried to take the island and they _nearly_ did." Marceline shakes her head as the crowd begins to rumble. "Imagine that, a _rebel_ island, all because Ricardo and his father failed to follow orders–"

"Anyone with a sense of _compassion_ would refuse an order to sink _refugee boats_ and _shell cities_!" I exclaim, jabbing a finger her way.

"The island was nearly overrun, with boatloads of rebels sailing in..." Marceline drawls on, dismissive of my tone.

"My job was to patrol the seas and rediscover land _anew_." I snarl.

Marceline raises an eyebrow. " _Yes_ , but you swore an _oath_ to protect the Capitol against enemies both _internal_ and external... _did you not?"_

"I wasn't going to murder my own countrymen in order to uphold... _this..."_ I say, shooting my hands into the air regardless of the booing the audience hurls at me.

 _"_ What _do they 'uphold'_ exactly, the rebels – besides _anarchy?"_ Marceline asks with a shrug. _"_ The train derailments nationwide, the sinking of ships, granaries set on fire, noble peacekeepers ambushed and slaughtered, loyal citizens raped and killed among other atrocities. Ask Zenobia Rivendell of District 2, she knows the last part _very well_." Marceline turns to the audience at-large. "How many of you lost a relative in the cowardly raid against the Capitol?"

A sizeable amount of hands shoot up into the air. Pathetic, people outside their gilded city had a far worse experience.

I cross my arms. _War is war_ and these people wouldn't know horror if it slapped them upside the head. "If I were under someone's boot for _seventy-five_ years, I wouldn't be surprised if they lashed out the way they did."

I roll my eyes as the crowd exclaims and bursts into acidic chatter. These people are _unreal_.

"What a _shame_...You see, _this_ is why the Games shall continue." Marceline regards me as if I committed murder...twisted _bitch._ "As I've said before, my work is done for me, seeing as you've done absolutely _nothing_ except make yourself the poster child for rebels nationwide, I don't have any Games-related questioning for you. We already know the angle _you're_ playing."

"Good. Then nothing else needs to be discussed." I rise out of my seat and begin walking away, waving dismissively toward the rowdy crowd. "Enjoy your hourly _propaganda_."

"I feel sorry for his sister," Marceline says behind my back. I halt _immediately_ , my chest bursting with _heat_. "Unlike Ricardo and his father, the _fools_ , she serves her Capitol _proudly_. I can't _imagine_ how much of a _drag_ this must be for her. _Oh_ , and don't forget the _mother -_ "

Swiveling on my heels, I pounce toward her. I'd be on her now, _pounding_ her face into a _pulp_. But instead I'm subdued by the Peacekeepers, squirming against their grip as they haul me away, Marceline watching on with a coy smirk. _I was so, so close._

 _But as long as a handful of rational-minded people watched – and were inspired – that's all that matters._

* * *

 _ **Veradisia Smith, 19**_  
 _ **District 12 Female**_

"Oh man..." The young man from One says while snickering into his glass of drink. "He's getting his _ass_ handed to him out there."

"Hey, as long as Snow Island is knocked down a peg after this..." Warren Holt trills, joining the rest of the Careers in their darkly sniggering.

Meanwhile, the rest of the non-Career tributes in the lounge watch Ricardo's segment with tight lips. We know what he says is _true_ but lest we face ridicule – or instantaneous death – it's best you keep your opinions to _yourself_.

I wonder how Marceline would tackle _my_ segment, or that of my allies?

The Peacekeepers standing guard at the sliding door step aside as it hisses open. All eyes gaze toward the doors when a well-dressed, lanky man with a slicked comb over enters the room.

"Veradisia Smith?" he croons in his crisp Capitol accent. As the lounge bursts into confused chatter, I raise my hand in the affirmative as he taps away at his holopad.

"Present." I say, unperturbed by of the numerous eyes that lay on me.

He motions for me to follow and I do, sparing Hermia and co one last glance. With the Assistant by my side and an Avox following close behind, I make my way to the stage for my interview.

I couldn't help but feel confused, _off guard_ even. Like the private sessions, Kaviraya and I during any typical year would be _last_ to go.

But this wasn't any typical year... _was it? I should know._

We were just about to turn the corner when numerous Peacekeepers come barreling down the hall, the Assistant pressing me against the wall to avoid being rammed. It's _then_ when I hear the shouts, cries of pain and _contact being made with something._ First to round the corner seconds later are a serious looking man and woman wearing suits and then... _Ricardo._

A sharp gasp escapes my lips when I see his unconscious, bruised and torn-clothed body being dragged off by Peacekeepers followed by a high ranking Peacekeeper. A wolfish grin on her crimson lips and hands casually clasped behind her back, she _winks_ at me.

"With that fiasco out of the way, let us move on to _District 12!_ " Marceline announces, to the confusion _and_ delight of the audience. It was like a rollercoaster how their exclamations flowed. "Weren't expecting _that_ were ya? My next guest has left the nation scratching their heads since their bizarre volunteering...They were so eager they left us without a _name_. So, allow me to introduce for the very first time, _Veradisia Annora Smith!"_

Smoothing down my skirts, I slowly make my way toward the roaring audience and blinding lights where Marceline greets me. A grin on her face, I take her extended hand while she leads us to the front of the stage.

"That's _quite_ the number you're wearing Veradisia." She muses, ogling the black dress while caressing the raven stenciled onto one the pauldrons. As she does this, the steel-like fabric glistens in the light. "Very... _arcane_."

"Why _thank you_ Marceline." I reply to her. " _Tell me about it_...I have petticoats for _days_ under this thing."

"You truly are ready to rumble...In more ways than one, it seems." Marceline comments to my detriment. When the cheering dies, she escorts me to the famed sofa. "Come, sit, we have _much_ to chat about."

"I'm delighted to begin." I chirp in reply, taking my seat. _I wasn't delighted._ If Ricardo's encounter taught me anything, Ms. Devereaux isn't as tranquil as she lets on. I see this now as she takes her seat behind her desk, plopping her feet on top. She grins at me, but her eyes never meet her lips. Those _piercing_ blue eyes...

"So, Vera..." she begins with an inquisitive lilt, leaning forward. " _Veradisia Annora Smith..._ You know, with that type of moniker, I'd expect you to be watching these Games in your manor parlor with avoxes at your beck and call."

I grin tightly as the audience chortles along. "It is quite the name, I agree."

"So you agree that you're quite the enigma?" she asks me with a raised brow. "Someone of Capitol lineage living in _Twelve_ of all places...it raises flags."

"How so?" I ask, immediately biting my tongue afterward. Oh Vera, you sweet, sweet summer child...

My hiccup must've shown, as Marceline's grin grows. "Well, what of your father and mother? Surely they must've done something to prompt them to flee or be emigrated." She shrugs. "I'm not sure _myself_ , the records are spotty."

"My mother passed away when we were young." I answer matter-of-factly. "Unfortunately, I can't speak for my father's actions."

"He can't speak for _yours_ either." Marceline shoots back, reclining in her chair. "Neither can your foreman, your sister, your neighbours...your volunteering took _everyone_ by surprise."

"I got earful of complaints during the goodbyes..." I reply, earning laughter from the audience.

"Why did you take the plunge?"

" _Because_ Marceline," I say with a shrug. "I simply want to be a victor of _significance_."

"Like how say...Katniss Everdeen was?" Marceline counters. My eyes drift to the front row of past victors and current escorts until I find _mine_. Ainsely continues to wear her permanent frown, supported by Francine who continues to eye me with concern whilst caressing Ainsely's hand.

" _Come on_ Marceline, why the compare and contrast?" I ask jokingly, earning laughter throughout the arena.

A sly smirk spreads across her lips. "The miner's getup...?"

"To stand out of course," I reply simply. "Also to show everyone from the _Grand Pacific to the Atlantican_ that I'm an _everyday person_."

"Why would _anyone else_ care? They have their _own_ tributes to root for?"

"Victors _regardless_ of their home district are loved nationwide. I would use my victory not just for Twelve, but for _everyone_."

I continue to grin as Marceline blinks once. _I'm not lying?_ Not to be perturbed, she continues on. "The 12 in training...?" she says.

"I thought the Gamemakers were a little _too kindly_ in that regard..." I reply, earning a few sniggers from the audience. "I didn't think I performed that great, but I'm _forever thankful_ for their opinion regardless. I imagine I have sponsors citywide now."

The crowd cheers as Marceline hums in agreement. I watch as the screen pans to the VIP section where Pearlana Singh perches with the rest of Panem's crop. She sits _right next_ to 'Her Excellency' President DeWynter herself. Their faces show no inkling of emotion, though I could only _imagine_ their inner thoughts.

"What about them allies of yours..." Marceline continues, her eyes drifting from the screens back to me. She points to the exit. "A dissident and three former rebels...many people say that you're gearing up for something."

"I wanted to align myself with like-minded people." My breath hitches when the crowd breaks out into murmurs. Marceline's face scrounges into one of confusion. "A-A group of mature and level-headed people would be _good_ for me. They know what they want, un-unlike the others."

Marceline's confused expression morphs into one of smugness. "I've heard through the grapevine that you've asked plenty of tributes besides these?"

I immediately straighten up on the sofa. The once manageable dress now constricts me like a _snake mutt._ "They had other dealings going on? Regardless I think this alliance will go on to become a tremendous player in these Games."

"I agree. I too wonder how this alliance of yours will play out." Marceline replies, her smile never faltering as she leaves her seat and collects me by the hand. "They all have their own individual flavor..."

She presents me to the audience once more.

"It was nice to _finally_ meet you, _Veradisia Smith everybody!"_

Marceline releases me, prompting myself to quickly curtsy, smile, wave and disperse _in that order._ When I enter the backstage, I watch as crew of Avoxes continue to mop up the mess the Peacekeepers made with Ricardo. At least I wasn't given _that_ treatment.

Which means the front holds... _for now_ at least.

* * *

 _ **Kavirayah Parathi, 29**_  
 _ **District Twelve Male**_

"His colleagues say he's quirky but hardworking. The Mayor of District 12 swears up and down that he wouldn't be there if it weren't for this man's brain. Next up, we have Kavirayah Parathi, our male from District 12!"

The Assistant gestures towards the entrance, prompting me to groan with discomfort. I quickly refer back to Ms. Nguyen's words, drilled into me all day today _and_ yesterday.

 _If there's one thing I'll remember from school, it's this – back straight, eyes bright, chins up, smiles on! You got this!_

I nod to the man, gripping the steel banister while walking upward. "Right...Eyes bright, chins up, smiles on...Eyes bright chins up, smiles on..."

I suppose it worked, as I walk on stage to polite applause. I wave here and there, but most of my time was spent fending off the blinding light that seems to peer into my being.

"Kavi, how are you this evening...I can call you Kavi, right?" Marceline asks, pumping my hand. "A friend of yours back in Twelve seemed to do so a lot."

I return the gesture. _No, you cannot._ "I _suppose_ , but—"

"Perfect. It's a fab nickname to use." Marceline prattles on, perusing the shimmering scales on my blazer. "I see that Twelve's stylists collaborated a little bit with your suit there. I'm _digging_ the turtleneck as well."

I twiddle my thumbs. "Thank you Marceline...I...um...requested the sweater myself."

"You have a good eye for fashion." She says with a smirk, turning her attention to the audience at large. " _Doesn't he_ ladies...gentlemen?"

I grin towards the audience as the arena rumbles with low chuckles. "Go on, take a load off. Something tells me we're gonna have _plenty_ to unpack here." Marceline says with folded hands. "So, from what I gather from you, Kavi, is that you are a _self-made man_. Correct?"

I nod. "... _Yes_ , I suppose that's a fair observation."

"It strikes me as odd, however, with you being the son of Commander James Tacker – an important leader during the War." Marceline continues. "Being the son of such a famous man, you think things would be a tad different?"

"He was my father for formalities sake." I reply tersely to her, gripping the arm of the sofa with one hand and balling my fist with the other. Asking me about the Games and my occupation are one thing, but why do they _insist_ on airing out people's business for the nation at-large?

"Ah, so things were less than ideal." Marceline says with a nod.

"Yes."I reply simply. _Far more than anyone could imagine_. My thoughts drift back to the spent days and nights locked away in an annex while my _dear old man_ got on with his _hag_ wife and _priggish_ kids. The _rats_ have a deeper relation to me than he does.

"And unfortunately he passed away about a week ago. Your thoughts on that?"

To stave off the sudden urge to massage my temples, I simply shrug in reply. Where eighteen year olds across the nation are showered with affection and promises to support their endeavors, ' _Dad'_ handed me a knife and made me choose between banishment to the streets or simply no longer breathing.

 _No one_ is ready for my thoughts, _I'm_ not even ready.

Marceline notices my unease, her frown morphing into a warm smile. "Regardless of those downs, you truly have pulled yourself up. Your co-workers sing your praises."

My brows rise in confusion. "Do they?"

" _Especially_ Mary Dunhill." Marceline adds, her smile growing. "Is she someone of _significance_?"

"No, however she is a _very_ good friend." I say. V I imagine will be in good hands, spoiled to death by Mary's ditzy love.

"Now as I stated in the introduction, Kaviraya here works for the mayor's office in District 12." "Now Kavi, we don't really get bureaucrats in these Games often. Before we let you go, tell us, how exactly are you going to tackle this challenge _especially_ with no allies?"

"Well Marceline..." "Sure being an aide doesn't have much going for it in terms of physicality. However, my occupation comes with _particularity_."

"Particularity." Marceline repeats.

I nod. "I tend to tackle issues one at a time, fixating on said issue until it is resolved _completely_ without error. The Games are rather simple in that regard – just survive until you're _last_. If one simply stays on task and is _efficient_ about it, there's very little room for error."

"I somehow _fear_ yet _yearn_ to see that...' _Particularity'_ in action." She purrs, gesturing with one hand for me to rise, and I do so. "A round of applause for a Mr. Kaviraya Parathi!"

More so out of elation rather than genuine happiness, I smile towards the audience and offer a modest wave. Before I turn to leave, my eyes briefly catch that of Francine, who offers thumbs up and a bright smile. I must've done 'ok' in her eyes. All this doesn't really matter.

All that matters is tomorrow and heavens willing the day after tomorrow, and so forth.

* * *

 _ **Wondr'a Okafor, 30**_  
 _ **District Eleven Female**_

"Now, we all know that District 2 holds a special place in my heart..." Marceline begins, her smile becoming coy as she adds "With _Isla Nieve_ serving as my mistress of course..."

The audience doubles over with laughter.

"However, this next tribute is _interesting_ to say the least...and I imagine that _many_ of you agree." The Master of Ceremonies continues over a murmuring audience. "Just one of the _many_ doctors joining us this Hunger Games, please join me in welcoming Wondr'a Okafor of District 11!"

With all my might, I muster up the same moxie Wondr'a would before the accident when she engaged in things like these, entering onto the stage using both my hands to wave to the massive audience and smiling as the cheers reach their peak.

"Evenin', Marceline." I greet, choosing to hug the older woman rather than the typical handshake. She responds in kind, returning the hug as if I were an old friend just catching up.

"Hello hello, Wondr'a!" she replies, her hand on the small of my back as she gestures to the peach-colored mini dress with petal-decorated sheer sleeves I wear. "May I say that you look _absolutely fab? Your dress, those heels – and oooh, that giant bun!_ "

"Thank you Marceline, you look _just dandy_ as well." I reply in kind while regarding her daffodil earrings, the white, floral-patterned, collarless tunic that seemed to change colour every minute and the green flared pants she had on. She'd fit _right in_ with Alphonso and his commune. "I can't believe no one before me brought it up."

Marceline's head cranes back in laughter. "Well you know what they say. I'm the _harbinger of trends_ , they can vouch for me!" She says over the cheers of the audience. "Come sit, I'm genuinely curious about you, Wondr'a. I'm sure everyone else is as well."

"Is that so?" I inquire, earning soft laughter from the audience.

"Again, it's not every day we get a doctor on that sofa." Marceline replies. "You're not a doctor in the ' _generic'_ sense though. Do you mind filling us in?"

"I have a..." I swallow in an attempt to hold off the brain fog. "... _Doctorate_ in technology, with a minor in agriculture."

Cheers flow from the audience as Marceline nods in acknowledgement.

"I imagine that a lot of people are confused on why you'd need such credentials in _Eleven_ of all places. Could you...?"

"Sure. I work for the district government," I offer. "Advising on a mu- mul... _many_ issues, too many to count. Mainly, I tend to manage data – like our internet."

"So _you're_ one of the many brains working to get our internet in tip-top shape!?" Marceline asks as I nod in reply. "The computer virus is a _real drag_ , so how about you try and win for us so you can get back to work?"

"...Of course." I reply, shrinking into my seat and offering a tight-lipped smile as the crowd cheers some more.

"Speaking of winning, _why in the world_ would you volunteer?" Marceline asks. "I imagine you live fairly comfortably back home, your family is _widely known_ for their educational contributions." Marceline smiles when she adds "And you don't peg me as the type to split people in two with a _machete_."

"Umm..." I readjust myself, nervously laughing along with the audience. "The girl in the wheelchair –Tera – she wouldn't have been a good tribute. I enjoy helpin' people and no one else did...so _I did."_

Marceline quirks a brow. "I'm sure that's _part_ of why, but are you sure there isn't more to this tale?"

"H-How?" I splutter out, my body beginning to simmer up like a District 11 day.

"Well, your colleagues and your _family_ seem to think otherwise." Marceline elaborates. "Your father says due to your injuries, you've been a little... _irate_."

"He'd be the _last_ to know..." I quip back. _Inside me_...I feel... _weird_ , as Marceline's... _look_ becomes serious and the people begin to mumble. I didn't want them to hear that, but it's _true._ If he cared harder, things would be _different_.

"He says you were found in your office with a banged up conk..." Marceline continues... _with caution._ "I take it that's why you talk the way you do?"

Sighing, I nod. "Like I said, I enjoy helpin'. So when the computer virus hit, I was eager to do so. And when _none_ of my formulas worked after _weeks_ of tryin'...I blacked out. I still do feel awfully beat up about the whole thing. Nothin' has been the same since."

"I could imagine why one would be fairly upset..." Marceline nods along as the audience coos with sadness. "Especially with you losing the _baby_ and all."

 _I beg your pardon?_

" _WHAT?!"_ the shriek that escapes out of me prompts the crowd to still. Marceline becomes straight-lipped, leaving her desk to join me on the sofa. What _baby_ was she talking about _?!_ I didn't know about any...

"Now now..." she coaxes, easing beside with caution. "I also heard you were out of it for a couple of days...maybe your father didn't want to hurt you?"

I ain't even listening at this point. My eyes glance up past the skylights and into the evening air. _Poor, poor_ Otel, how must he feel? Does he even realize? If I wasn't so _weak..._ I'm unfortunately brought back to earth when Marceline caresses my hand.

"Regardless of all that, Tera Hutchinson, her family and many people of District 11 are _very_ happy with you and are _rooting_ for you." She soothes. "My crew spoke to a rather handsome boy, Otel Sharps? He sings your praises."

"Otel?" I repeat.

Marceline nods. "Yes, he says you help out with his daughter sometimes?"

"Yes, I often make clothing for her and cookies." I reply, crossing one leg over the other. I'm going to miss carrying her in my arms, looking at those bright brown eyes. "She's a _mighty fine_ babe. You could never deny her a thing."

"And Mr. Sharps?" she asks. "Your reaping scene was well...quite the scene!"

"Oh my, there's an _awful_ lot to say and so _little_ time." I say, earning light laughter from the audience. "He's friendly, articulate and handy to have around the house when I need it... _what?"_

Marceline's face carries a knowing grin as the audience giggles. "Oh nothing, your description seems pretty accurate from what I hear."

As the laughter and... _suggestive_ "Oooh-ing" grow, I simply offer a thin smile, hoping that those watching at home don't think too hard about what Marceline is... _rightfully_ trying to suggest.

"Another thing was that you were always someone they could rely on – a _'mother hen'_ one man called you?"

I nod in reply. I could use Alphonso's sage advice right now. "I can't help but _agree_."

"They say, Wondr'a, that you are a part of a growing community of Panemians _nationwide_ taking after what they call ' _bohemianism'_..."

My lips curl into a small smile. "Are _you_ a bohemian, Marceline? You color me as such?"

The host chuckles something fierce as the crowd roars along with laughter. "Well, I _do_ dabble in artistic pursuits, enjoy the pleasure of _intellectual company_ and take the occasional chem..." she replies, smacking me on the leg. "But this isn't about me, it's about you! Do you mind explaining what it means _to you?_ It seems to vary from region to region."

I nod. "Well sure... _Bohemianism_ to me simply means to live by a _different_ set of rules..."

"As we've seen _time and time_ again...deviating from the Capitol..."

"It ain't...d-deviating from _rules,_ rules." I counter. Well, it _was_ but I ain't about to admit that. "It's simply – to me and many others - living life without doting on day-to-day...issues, something that we tend to do a lot in Panem. Do what makes _you_ happy. To me, that means engaging in the arts, tending to the earth – and its people – creating things..."

"So I imagine that this creed contributed to that solid training score of yours?" Marceline asks. "The trainers and the Gamemakers I hear were pretty impressed."

"...I think so, yes." I reply.

The host becomes serious, leaning in slightly towards me. "So what will _you_ do with this momentum...I wonder?"

My eyes drift out toward the crowd, scanning through the curious faces until I meet the soft eyes of Octavia and Eleven's victors. Paisley raises a concerned eyebrow. "...I'm not sure."

"Well, please try and figure that out _asap_." Marceline soothes, gently clinching my hand as she stands the both of us up. "A lot of eyes are on you, more than you _think_. Everyone, _please please please_ give a giant round of applause to the _wonderful_ Wondr'a Okafor!"

After a brief wave goodbye to the crowd, I make my way back to the lounge. Marceline had a touch for making people comfortable, but it _wasn't enough._ The thoughts I suppressed to get through this night have come back with full force, with new ones in tote.

 _"I could imagine why one would be fairly upset...Especially with you losing the baby and all."_

I had a baby...and I _lost it._ All because of the life I lived.

 _"So what will you do with this momentum...I wonder?"_

Absolutely _nothing_.

* * *

 _ **Linden Norton, 40**_  
 _ **District Eleven Male**_

As Wondr'a crosses my path, she only stares lamely at me as I offer a nod in return. And here I thought she'd cry herself off the stage or something.

"And now, onto the male half of this duo, please join me in welcoming Linden Norton to the stage!"

Buttoning my blazer, I jog up the steel steps and onto the stage proper, waving to the audience while pumping hands with Marceline.

"Thank you for having me, Marceline...thank you." I greet. As the cheers die down, she gestures for me to take a seat on the sofa opposite of her desk.

"You're looking pretty dapper with those psychedelic threads, friend." She replies, giving me a look-over. "Your stylists must have good fashion sense, like _me_."

She's right, it was a pretty nifty suit, constantly changing colors to represent Eleven's seasons. "Thank you. I requested it myself...requested it myself."

"What?"

"Huh?"

"You repeated yourself twice..." Marceline smiles as the audience giggles softly.

"Oh right, pardon me...it's just a vocal tic."

"That's a-ok, Linden. The 99th Hunger Games and their victor have taught me _plenty_ about tics." As the audience doubles over in laughter, Marceline makes a nodding motion, her finger pointing toward the medallion around my neck. "And what's that you have there?"

"That there is my token." I reply, fiddling with the gold material. "Within each panel are portraits of my family."

"Ah, so you're a _family man_ then, the first of the evening." Marceline muses. "Tell me about your family, Linden."

"Things are surprisingly okay back home, all things considering. I work as a harvester part time and work at my family general store with my side of the family – mother, brother, father..." I begin, fidgeting with the medallion. "There's my wife...my lovely wife, Delia...Delia. She's an overseer at one of the orchards. Then we have my three kids. Salas – smart kid. There's my only daughter, Ace – nothing but troublesome since she was born. And then we have Jarlan – the youngest of the bunch."

"Ace...Yeah, Ace is _quite the card_." Marceline's head peels back as she lets out a cackle. The audience follows after immediately. "She's told my people a lot of salacious things...Apparently things can get very _volatile_ in your household, especially with the younger son?"

I shake my head. "Oh Ace...your old man is about to die yet you still can't resist getting one last jab in..." I smirk as the audience chuckles along. I joke about it outwardly, yeah, but that inward feeling of annoyance begins to rise. _Seriously Ace,_ now I look like a _bumpkin_ in front of all these folks! "Don't we _all_ have family scuffles? He's a growing, confused boy. I just try to raise him as proper as can be."

"I imagine if you won, you'd hold them even tighter than before?"

I nod in agreement. "Of course Marceline, this predicament I face has allowed for a whole heap of reflection."

"Yeah I could imagine..." she replies a little too quickly. "Speaking of reflection and holding people tighter, will _Daniel Arnett_ be one of them?"

"...I'm sorry?" I babble. _Dan you idiot!_

"Daniel Arnett." She repeats. "He says that you two are...very close. Which is odd because of the wife and—"

My eyes lay on the victor's row, meeting Clarence's. His rolling of the hand, shake of the head and stern gaze tell me everything I need to know. "I'm not sure what he's talking about. He is a _friend, that's it."_

Marceline folds her arms, an amused smirk on her face as she snickers. "...My producers..."

"Simply a _friend_." I reply firmly. What's wrong with these people? Why does it have to be _now_ that my weaknesses get aired? Why can't folks keep their mouths _shut?_

"Okay, moving on..." Marceline replies snidely, earning small bouts of laughter from the audience. "Since coming here, you've proven yourself to be a fair contender for these Games. An _eight_ in the private sessions, fairly decent odds on the betting boards...Most people usually resign their fates, but you _haven't_."

That sense of dread I feel immediately fades when the questioning gets toned down. "Of course not, Marceline, I'm in this to survive and hopefully _thrive_."

"What about that alliance of yours?" the host continues. "Six tributes – you included –outnumber the Career pack this year...Care to tell us any strategies?"

" _I too_ was surprised when we added on so many tributes." I answer honestly. Gio and Chris were in charge of that but if you asked me, I would've cut the ladies loose. A little cushioning wouldn't hurt nobody... "In terms of strategy, I'm not sure where to begin. Now that you mention it, I imagine we'll make a decent splash as a team."

"Well, here's hoping you and your crew perform to expectations." Marceline purrs, pointing a lazy finger towards me. "There's a lot of momentum to be had, don't waste it."

I nod. I don't like these Games one bit. If I were home right now and something kicked off, you could bet your bottom dollar I'd be there tossing a cocktail too. But I'm here now, and my fate is in the Capitol's hands. So if it means assuming a role to survive, then so be it.

Marceline nods, rising from behind her desk. "With that being said, Mr. Linden, I'm gonna let you go now. Thank you for such a solid interview!"

* * *

 ** _Laelia Alvarado, 19_**  
 ** _District Ten Female_**

"Here we are now at District 10. Please join me in welcoming Ms. Laelia Alvarado to the stage!"

My score was _okay_ , the people think I'm _okay_ , which means I'm mostly _fine._

 _Let's do this._

With Harriet's words of encouragement buzzing around my head, I quickly zip onto the stage, waving this way and that. The crowd's cheers are _something else_ , and it takes everything within me not to freeze in place and become overwhelmed. A gentle side-hug from Marceline is enough to calm me. At least I'm not alone anymore. She was like a cool aunt – someone you could have a prolonged conversation with. All I have to do is be _me_ and Marceline will feed into that.

"Laelia, you look as..." Marceline clears her throat as she says in a Southern lilt "Pretty as a peach in June!"

"Gracias, Marceline." I chirp back in reply. "It's a popular way of dress in Ten."

I wore a red shirtdress with black floral yolk on the front and back of the shoulders. On my feet was a pair of stylish leather boots with floral embroidery on them. It was a typical District 10 look by any means.

"Please take a seat, Laelia." Marceline instructs. "Although many people may find you plain Jane, there seems to be plenty more to you than meets the eye."

"Is that so?" I ask in an inquisitive tone, a light smirk on my lips. "Like everyone else, I'm curious as to what."

"You're a girl that belongs to _two worlds_ , it seems." Marceline muses. Though her hands cover her mouth partially, her grin was still visible. "Born and raised in District 10, yet carry the looks and trappings of a One."

"Yes, my family moved from One following the war..."

"The _entire_ house?" Marceline asks with a quirked brow.

"I believe so, yes." I say, nodding in reply and trying my best to keep a straight face amongst the confused murmurs of the crowd.

"Come on Laelia, you're a smart girl." Marceline says with a sigh. "Why would they move from One to Ten?"

"Because of the War of course..." I answer, adjusting myself on the sofa in an attempt to mitigate my unease. "I'm not sure what they did or what happened to prompt the move..."

"They didn't tell you about the poisoning of rivaling, loyalist houses?" Marceline says to the utter shock of the audience. "Because the War went the other way, they fled to escape reprisal."

I remain frozen as the arena bursts into animated chatter about my family's supposed treachery. I knew, I _always_ it was a negative reason...I guess here was a perfect time for it to be aired. I glance toward Annabelle, who looks at me with urgency in her eyes. " _Turn this around, NOW!"_

"Marceline, I was born in _Ten_. I have no true ties to One or what happened with my family."

"...I suppose that's fair, but rebel families tend to fall not far from each other."

"Isn't this punishment enough?" I reason, pointing towards myself. "I imagine my parents are ruing the day as we speak."

"That seems about right, Laelia. And on the plus side, according to my producers, you are something of a star citizen in Ten."

"I'd like to think I have. And yes, I think that's very true." I reply, a little bit _too_ earnestly I'd say. "I go to school, do my best, play futbol, and volunteer with special needs children..." my unease falters somewhat when the crowd begins to lightly cheer. "I strive to do the best in everything I do. It's the very least I can do."

"Mhm...I think that people who are watching can agree with your explanation." Marceline says while nodding. "Do you have any words for your family watching at home? Your friends?"

"Just keep on keeping on. I'll try my best to get back to you. Joy, Aurumn, help Papa take care of Mamá. Gods know that she must be having a fit right now." I gulp back the urge to tear up when the audience _laughs_ as if _anything_ about this is. "Miguel, give Jorge _a break_ for me please?"

Marceline nods as the audience applauds. "Seems like a sweet message to me. Speaking of back home, so you say that you're a sporty person? Would you say that helped with that training score you got?"

" _Yes_. If need be, I believe I could step up to the plate and play these Games on part like the rest of them."

"I don't think it's a matter of _"Need be",_ unless you want to be the next Piper Malveaux or Koller Ascort."

I nod. "You're _right_. I am _more than able_ to step up, I mean."

"That's more like it. Those two victors are great and all, but I prefer tributes with a _liiiitle_ bit more grit to them, am I right or am I right?" more cheers from audience. "Now, to wrap things up, apparently you were in one alliance with the Three female, but you guys split? Why?"

At first I begin to feel sadness...then _indifference_. I had found something far better than an alliance of two weak girls who happened to be the _youngest_. "She thought she'd be better off without me. Good luck I say, loners don't really last too long..."

"I see, I'll have to get her side after." "And what about this new pack of yours? Six whole people...what are your thoughts?"

"Well, they all seem very nice so far, especially Ludra. Latinos from Isla Nieve are a lot different from mainlanders..." I reply.

"How so?"

"They're a very _animated_ people." I say, snickering when the audience bursts into a chorus of laughter.

Marceline claps her hands together. "I think time and time again, they've proven that. I can't help but agree wholeheartedly." She says. Her joyful tone quickly replaced with one of seriousness as she leans forward on her desk. "But _'being nice'_ has a volatile expiry date in a Hunger Games setting. Are you sure you can trust any of them?"

My mind flashes to that of Linden and his authoritative tone when discussing anything really. Ludra was always bubbly and eager...too much sometimes. Geo and Chris were ok though... "I'd imagine so? If any of them want to see their loved ones, we'd have to keep each other close for as long as possible."

"That's an interesting perspective." Marceline comments, "Let's see if it holds true once the gong goes off."

Moving from her desk in one swift motion, she collects me from the sofa and presents me to the audience at-large.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Laelia Alvarado, Laelia, thank you for the wonderful talk! See you out there tomorrow!"

* * *

 _ **Emmanuel Cade, 22**_  
 _ **District Ten Male**_

"Alright, the next tribute is a little of an enigma – the type of tribute that we sit on until the finale and then they're there and we're all like... _"Hey, this guy is still alive?"_ "

I roll my eyes as the audience bursts out with laughter, taking hold of the metal banner in anticipation of my name being called. As stupid as the entire thing is, I don't want to end up like the gentleman from Snow Island, who had yet to return to the lounge.

Once this gong show is done, I'm one step closer to actually playing and hopefully surviving their Game.

"Let's see if we can pick his brain, please join me in welcoming Emmanuel Cade – the male tribute for District 10!"

I bound up the steps, shielding my eyes as I enter onto the stage proper. They adjust fairly quickly, as I find myself pumping the hand of Marceline Devereaux. A hunter's intuition can apply to other walks of life. It has shown me that one's lips can't be so loose around her ears.

"Looking _fine_ , Mr. Cade." Marceline comments, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. "Your stylists are going all out with the District 10 culture."

Her observation wasn't wrong. I've never worn such fine material – a gray suit with a bolo tie, sky blue shirt and matching pocket square. When she invites me to sit down, I do so with the utmost care.

"Don't worry Emmanuel, the seat doesn't bite."

"Forgive me, Marceline. I don't want to crease the material." I say with a hesitant laugh, though the crowd seems to find the situation more amusing than I, judging by how loud they are as they laugh along.

"I don't blame you. Your people are a very practical one, so suits may be off the menu." Marceline replies. "Speaking of, Emmanuel, you offer a far different perspective than the rest of the tributes. Care to tell us why?"

"I belong to the Navajo Nation, which as you could imagine, allows me a free range of pursuits fit for a Hunger Games-like setting." I answer, earning _"Ooohs"_ from the audience.

"I know many-a-thing about your tribe." I've spent many months studying you guys in my university days. I imagine people have been giving you _hell_ about that hair of yours."

"Not many people share your knowledge, that's for sure." I comment, caressing the tsiiyéé – bun – my hair was styled into. "The escort for our district – Harriet Blakely – is another one. She knows to style one."

The cameras pan down the row of escorts and victors, holding at Annabelle and the young woman in question. Annabelle elbows her, prompting Harriet to smile and wave bashfully.

"Harriet Blakely is indeed a _special case_ , all our escorts are interesting people indeed, _ha ha ha_!" "So, tell me about home. I imagine that you're the provider?"

"Yes, however I wouldn't say I'm the sole provider." I begin. "I hunt at the national park with my brother and sister, Nathaniel and Rosanna. And then we have Tara and Damaris – my younger siblings. All of us work together to run a pelt shop in our local market."

"So I imagine that you're quite the hunter...Would that translate into the Games well? The Gamemakers seem to think so, or so they tell me."

"I'd imagine it could. It may be a jarring experience but when it comes to family...I would do anything."

"Mhm...And you seem like the type of guy who means what he says." Marceline says over the applause of the audience. "Speaking of 'family'...Heh heh, word has it that yours is of the troublemaking type..."

"That is news to me, Marceline." I say to the host, images of a snide man with slick blond hair and beady blue eyes cross my mind. "Tell me...was it a man by the name of _Jamison_ who told you such information?"

"Yes, actually, and a couple of his buddies in his unit." Marceline replies, jutting a pen towards me. "It wouldn't be too far from the truth, as native populations nationwide seem to have a penchant for fighting against the Capitol...despite all the goodwill we show."

"I don't see that goodwill being shown to me at all, actually." I snipe back, reclining into the couch as the audience gasps. _How dare I attack their Capitol so brazenly!?_

Opposite of what I'd expect, Marceline quirks a brow while waving a hand toward the audience. "Now now guys, please, explain. Unlike Mr. Marcenas, you seem logical with your disagreement."

"Thank you Marceline." I reply, inclining my head. "I imagine that the Capitol is an open-minded community, right? You trust one another. You all get along most of the time."

"Yeah...that seems about right." Marceline nods. "Except those #TeamDistrictOne people...I don't like em."

"How can the Capitol expect civility all the time, if there's no unity within the districts – at least mine?" I continue, shrugging. "My people are shoved into the dirt at every given opportunity. Everything we do, we have to do _ten times harder_ than everyone else. So when naysayers like Jamison come to our kiosk and harass us into not doing business, simply because of the colour of our skin, what else is there to do but be uncivil _back_? The same thing can be said for the War – when you said our people have a penchant for rebelling. If the Capitol enforced the same amount of community as it does well...here, Ten and _Panem_ would be far better off."

Marceline nods, as do many other faces in the crowd. "I see...Many districts seem to have that problem."

I shrug. "I led a good life in Ten, I have a family I adore and four friends from all walks of life I am thankful for. Ask them, I have no anarchistic bone in my body...all I ask for is _fairness_. I think that's something we can _all_ agree on."

"Mhm...He's mysterious _and_ sage." Marceline muses over the light cheering and applause. "Maybe it's all that tea you're drinking. I heard that you served some up for the Gamemakers the other day, so I thought I'd order some up for myself...Hephaestus?!"

The crowd's cheers intensify a burly, dark-skinned man wearing a waiter uniform enters onto the stage. In his hands is a platter with two piping mugs of tea, one for me and one for Marceline. The crowd goes quiet as she takes a tentative sip. Smacking her lips, the host nods in approval.

"And it's good!" she cheers, much to the delight of the spectators.

"It has a tendency of making one mellow, yes. I'm charmed you enjoy it."

"Someone will be living _lavishly_ in the arena, that's for sure." Marceline jokes, placing the cup down as her features become serious. "But in all seriousness, you seem prepared for what's coming. How are you feeling personally, heading into all this?"

I simply shake my head, bringing my lips to the mug to sip. "I have nothing to lose in that area, Miss Devereaux. I have a lot to live for _outside_ of the Games and I'd like to get back to that."

"...And something tells me that the probability of that happening is fairly good." Marceline replies, rising out of her chair and raising her mug towards me. "Emmanuel Cade everyone, we look forward to your performance tomorrow and the days following!"

Buttoning my blazer, I rise to my feet, offering a kind wave and a tip of my mug before turning heel and escaping backstage. That _certainly_ could've ended on a worse note.

* * *

 _ **Hermia Rhodes, 52**_  
 _ **District Nine Female**_

"We've arrived at District 9! Nine is usually a fairly quaint district, as we all know. But this year seems to have brought us an interesting duo this time 'round. Representing the female half of this pair, may I present to you the proprietor of _Fargo-Rhodes Wine & Spirits_ \- Hermia Rhodes!"

 _Vera returns from her interview, settling into her seat across from me without a word. Her face was stony, her eyes unfocused and her skin a step above its unnaturally pale pigmentation._

 _"Hey kid," Verona asked. "You haven't seen Ricardo out there have you...?"_

 _I shook my head, wasn't it obvious? Vera said nothing as she caressed her temples while her eyes began to water. As I turned my head towards the doors, I barely caught the attendant eyes as he turned to head out once more._

With that in mind, I cautiously enter the stage proper, offering the host a cordial smile as we shake hands. She seems to reflect my gesture – _seems –_ as the smile _never_ reaches those cold blue eyes of hers.

"I see you're a no-frills woman." She comments, regarding my outfit – a sleeveless cream blouse and navy skirt with a pair of cream loafers. It's something you'd see on the street, more so than an event like this.

I find myself shrugging. "I'm a grown woman Marceline. I'm not much for trends, like you for example."

"Fair enough," As the crowd chuckles, Marceline raises her hands in faux-surrender. "Come, sit, I think we should get right into it."

I take my seat, folding one leg over the other. Unlike these younger folks, she won't get past me with those methods of hers. "Alright then."

"Hermia...you're a long way from home, aren't you?" she begins, downing the rest of her tea from the previous session.

I nod. "You could say that."

She gestures to the crowd, her eyes not leaving me. "Do you mind elaborating for the audience?"

"I was born and raised in District 2, but currently live in District 9 because I was stranded..."

"...After fighting for the rebellion, right." She finished abruptly, prompting the crowd to murmur. "What made you take up arms?"

"Well," I start, attempting to keep my voice level. "During the War's lead up, I began to question everything I've been taught. Were Twos really coveted and appreciated by the Capitol, or just expendable lapdogs?"

"Your verdict...?"

"Unfortunately the latter...I've seen far too much to be proven otherwise." powering through their booing, I continue. "I was caught up in the Mockingjay's wake. I thought I could make a difference. Obviously it didn't work and I'm paying for that."

"That's a fair observation. War is hell, as some might say. You're entitled to your opinion." Marceline relents, shushing the crowd with a simple wave. "Have you spoken to your parents since the War?"

"No." I answer. Post-War Panem was a _mess_. I was in no shape to even try and go home let alone in _good standing_ to even ask.

"Well, I can gladly let you know that they – and your siblings – are ok." Reports Marceline, "In fact, many of your nieces are nephews are cadets themselves."

"That's nice." I reply evenly. "I'm glad they're doing well over there."

Knowing about them now only gives me _more people_ to worry about. Even if I am basically now just a _distant_ member of the family, what _I_ do affects them.

"And what about you, I hear you had twins yourself?"

"Yes, I have twin daughters, Felicity and Esther." I answer her, stifling the urge to roll my eyes as the crowd " _Awwhs_ ". "They're grown young people now. I'm supposed to be a grandparent very soon. It'd be nice if I could get back to that."

"And regardless of your past, you seemed to have bounced back." Marceline smirks. From under her table she retrieves a bottle of my wine, pouring a glass out for herself. "You opened a brewery of all things. How'd you get that idea?"

"Well, it was a dream of sorts that my late partner and I thought up."

Marceline nods as she takes a sip, inspecting the bottle's labeling. "I see. He was..."

"Killed during the war, yes." I interject tersely. A discordant mixture of hovercraft screaming through the skies, panicked cries of _"Gas, gas, gas!"_ being yelled _,_ gagging, children crying, retching and coughing suddenly fill my ears once more while my mind is overtaken by a thick, white mushroom-shaped cloud blooming over a city.

Marceline leans back in her chair. "That's quite unfortunate. But I think we can _both_ agree that he would be very happy to see you where you are now."

I nod. Suure...I highly doubt that, but ok. "Thank you Marceline, I'd like to think that too."

"Let's bring things to the present now." She says. "You seem like a level-headed person, Hermia. So why is it that you decided to truck with _Ricardo Marcenas_ and the dubious Veradisia Smith? You have a lot of people back home waiting and it'd be a real drag if..."

"What makes you think _I'm_ a threat?" I counter. "What makes you think _we're_ a threat?"

"What was that meeting about in the hallway outside the gymnasium...?" she queries with a wide smirk. "What did she mean by wanting to have _'like-minded'_ people by her side?"

 _Ah jeez_. The crowd gasps, and the mask falls now, as I purse my lips and glance around at the various members of the audience break out into animated chatter. Marceline pours some more wine into her tumbler, that smug smirk never leaving her lips.

"One dissident is _nothing_...having multiple is a recipe for disaster." Marceline continues, shaking her head as she sips from the glass once more. "And I can't understand _for the life of me..."_

"For me personally, it's all about protection in numbers." I counter. I knew what I was getting into saying yes to them, but I'm not privy to their thoughts. "I'm _fifty-two_ years old, Marceline. The entire alliance is _old_...er. Isn't being hypersensitive about us a little _much_?"

Marceline jostles her head from side-to-side, swirling the amber liquid in the glass. "Okay. I'll give you that one. So...I suppose you're in it for the long haul then?"

"That's the plan. I'm simply playing the game like everyone else." I answer. "I'm no-frills, like you said."

Sighing, Marceline folds her hands on her stomach. " _Ok_ Hermia _,_ I believe you. Unfortunately, we are out of time, although I enjoyed our conversation here tonight."

"Thank you for the chat, Marceline." I reply, inclining my head. "I'm glad I wasn't burned at the stake."

Marceline smirks as the audience chuckles. "Hermia Rhodes, everyone!"

As I turn and make my way backstage, I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. It was a plain interview, all things considered. Which means everyone will most likely forget it by the end of the night – _which means_ that I can breathe freely...for _now_ at least.

* * *

 ** _Lars Malatic, 36_**  
 ** _District Nine Male_**

"That wasn't too bad, was it—?" Marceline asks to light applause. "Now I know that many of you have been dying to –"

Just as I make my way towards the stage, Hermia comes bounding down the steps with a brooding expression. It softens though when our eyes meet.

"Did you warm 'em up for me?" I ask jokingly.

"They're all yours." She replies with a soft smile on her face as she gestures to the stage. "Good luck, jailbird."

"Please welcome our next tribute—" Marceline's voice is drowned out by the cheers. Though I can't see it, I could imagine the cringe on her face. " _Jeez Louise,_ I didn't even introduce the man yet and you guys are already getting wound up! The people can't contain themselves, Lars Malatic, get on out here!"

You'd think a man of my status in Panem would be booed and pelted with trash...but instead the cheers and shrieks I receive from men and women equally as I enter the stage are something else _entirely_.

...I think my ears popped.

"Yeah, uh, good evenin'. Thanks for havin' me." I say with a single wave. Is it possible for the cheers to get any _louder?_

"Welcome to the show, Lars." Marceline purrs. "As you've just witnessed, we've been _dying_ to make your acquaintance."

"Is that so?" I reply, taking my seat and smirking towards the cheering audience.

"Well, it's not every day we get a _jailbird_ as tribute in the Hunger Games." Marceline continues, swirling a finger towards my clothes. "I see your stylists had a lot of fun there."

A black and white striped suit, black dress shirt, black boots... _Y'don't say?_ "It's a little on the nose, if you ask me."

"It suits you _very well_ , if I may say so myself..." Marceline breathes with a chuckle, flashing me one of her big, white smiles. "You're a real _biscuit_ , isn't he ladies?"

The women in the audience let out a racket of flirty giggles.

Elizabeth's voice floods my thoughts. _"I know they aren't your forte, but just roll with it."_

I smile, though it's anything but genuine. They don't seem to be any the wiser, though. "Thank you Marceline, ladies."

"What is a _handsome_ fella like you in for? _Breaking too many hearts_?"

"No Marceline," I reply, a hesitant snicker escaping my lips while the audience's cat calls flow my way. "It was because of trafficking."

Marceline quirks a brow as the audience gasps mildly. " _Trafficking_?"

"It was either that or wastin' away on a street corner." I say with a shrug.

Marceline hums, her mouth obscured by her fists. "I take it your early life didn't consist of baseball and cartoons?"

" _No_ , not at all." I reply. More like _constant_ shrieking and _stinging_ hands. "It was my _only_ choice."

" _Surely_ there were other options, but that doesn't really matter now, does it?" Marceline says. "Apparently there were more actors in your arrest than you let on. Care to explain?"

"Yes, there was someone else – a friend – involved with me..." I answer. "Her name is Eleanor, a dish of a girl if you ever saw her. If I didn't find her, I probably wouldn't be here at all. She's the type of person t'keep you up while you were down."

"She was caught red handed with you...yet you essentially shouldered the blame. Why?"

"Like I said, she was the looker – she could fit in anywhere. She wasn't the one cracking skulls or breakin' windows. She had dreams, so...I let'er live 'em. She's studying t'become a nurse now."

Heh, _applause_...Who would've thunk?

"How _humble_ of you." Marceline remarks over the applause of the audience. "Don't you have dreams of your own?"

"'Course...But how will I see 'em though in sitting behind bars?" I reply. "Volunteering was the only solution."

"And who brought you to that conclusion...Eleanor?"

"Her and another friend of mine – Micah – he's the Three behind the whole thing." I say, chuckling at the slang used to describe him. It was true though. He's never been wrong about anything. "Although one of my friends – _Benji_ – he wasn't so keen."

"I know that tone of voice." Marceline teases with a waggle of her finger. "Tell me about Benji, Lars."

"He's like my other half. We both want the same things in life, y'know? If he's watching, I'd like to let him know to keep on keepin' on no matter what happens."

"Okay pack it in ladies, Lars hays eyes for someone else!" Marceline laments. The entirety of the arena follows her stead as they moan out with supposed sadness. "And so here we are now. The Gamemakers and trainers alike are fairly impressed with your performance. Have any alliances scouted you?"

"The Careers wanted me, but I declined them."

"You declined them..." Marceline ponders.

"They're a little too hardcore for me..."

Marceline smirks. "Wasn't _prison_ pretty hardcore?"

"Yeah, I suppose you're right." I respond, earning soft laughter from the crowd. "If prison has taught me anything, though, it's that a guy has to be _calculating_ about his actions. If there's an opportunity to work with someone once the gong goes off, I'd probably take it...though I can't blame them for being apprehensive about teaming with a criminal."

"That's a fair perception of your situation. I think if you were to run it alone, you'd be fine." Marceline says. The host swivels in her chair, the smile she wore on the spin around was now a look of curiosity. " _However_...a lot of prospective sponsors and fans alike are a little cautious of you."

"That's fair." I shrug. More laughter from the audience.

"A man of your status doesn't exactly give off a _'model citizen'_ vibe...Are you just one more tribute we may have to worry about?"

I shrug again, a slight smile on my face. " _Hey_ , why would I volunteer if I _didn't_ want to be a model citizen? I'm thankful that the Capitol even _allowed_ me to volunteer in the first place. So if I won, I guess I'd owe you guys one."

"Well there you have it folks! If you ask me, Lars Malatic is _clear to back!_ " Marceline lets out a joyful guffaw, clapping her hands together as she leaves her seat, takes me by the shoulder and guides me to the front of the stage. "Lars, I'm afraid we've come to the end of our time."

"Thanks you for the opportunity, Marceline."

"Thank _you_ , Lars, for providing a _gas_ of a session." Marceline replies with a wink, raising my fist into the air with one hand and gesturing to me with the other. "Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Lars Malatic!"

Using my open hand to wave towards members of the audience, my eyes catch Sindy and Elizabeth as the both of them raise their thumbs in approval. I smile.

If that ain't success, I don't know _what_ is.


	29. Interviews! - Part Two

**_Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games_**  
 ** _Interviews! - Part Two._**

* * *

 _ **Alana Oskoii, 56**_  
 _ **District 8 Female**_

"I'm glad you guys enjoyed that little interlude..." Marceline says. "Are you ready to move on to the second batch of tributes?!"

I nervously rock on my heels as the crowd lets out a holler loud enough to make my ears ring from _back here_.

"Alright, now we move on to District 8. As of recent, Eight has been a lively place..."

My mind drifts back to the interviews of my allies that I so _foolishly_ decided to join up with. Mr. Marcenas is still missing. Sure, the _crowd_ enjoyed Vera's interview but the brains behind the scenes are most definitely iffy about her. Marceline held no punches back regarding Hermia, one of the most straightforward women I've ever _met._

How would she treat _me,_ I wonder?

I shake my head dismissively. I've done _nothing_ _wrong_ except accept an alliance proposal from a young lady who says seditious things! Emphasis on ' _says'_. Tell me, how would she act out on those feelings after what happened with _Katniss Everdeen?!_ How _could_ she!? I'm worrying about _nothing_. This interview should be easy-peasy.

"...Please welcome Alana Oskoii, author of _When Songbirds Cry! Get up, on your feet!_ "

With help from the Assistant, who with starstruck eyes wishes me luck , I bound up the stairs and into the blinding lights of Marceline's stage. That light, mixed in with the immense cheering overwhelms my senses. Regardless of this confusion, I press on, waving towards the audience with one of my brightest smiles. They wave back with even more zeal, some even wave _notebooks._ I glance toward Marceline, who gestures to me and then toward them. It's all a blur. I was on the stage a moment ago and now I find myself under Peacekeeper guard as I move across the first row, shaking hands signing things _this way and that._ If their cheers were loud on stage, being right up against them was like being in the center of a tornado.

It was _everything_ I _ever_ wanted, adoring fans not just on a _local_ scale, but _national_ one...but the circumstances aren't right enough for me to fully enjoy it.

The Peacekeepers allow me back on stage as I shakily make my way toward the Master of Ceremonies. Marceline's lips move, but no noise comes out.

Rubbing my ears does the trick, ridding them of the ringing that flooded my hearing. "I'm sorry. Could you say that once more?" I ask, joining the audience as they chuckle.

"I said you look _absolutely_ fab in that dress." Marceline says with a snicker. "Who made it again? Was it Ptolemy Jacobs, looks like something he had his hands in..."

I make a show of displaying the white gown I wore to the audience at-large, accessorized with white gloves and a sheer cape that hooked over my right shoulder. "Yes, Ptolemy makes nothing but the _best_ , doesn't he?"

"Ptolemy, take a stand right now! Ptolemy Jacobs!" Marceline turns her attention back to me. "Alana you look like an _angel_. If you win, we're gonna have to splash some blood on it or something. I kid, I kid – _not!_ Come take a seat, you are indeed a tribute of _particular interest_ this time around."

"...I couldn't imagine why." I snip back, earning laughter from the audience.

"Let's get right into it then." Marceline says with a sly smile. "I saw you a couple of weeks back at the Lancaster Awards ceremony, _didn't I?_ "

"Why _yes_ you did, Marceline."

"And why was that?"

"Well, I was nominated _for_ and _won_ the Lancaster Prize for fiction due to my writing." I reply while smiling bashfully as the audience douses me with praise once again.

Even Marceline joins in, offering a polite clap. " _'When Songbirds Cry'_ is really, _really_ popular. Why is that?"

"Well, as I love to say, there's a Velvet in _every woman_ just _waiting_ to get out..."

"I too yearn for the day I could kill my various exes." Marceline says with a cackle. "I'm sorry, please continue."

"Uh, yes..." I continue, albeit hesitantly. "I believe that many women across the nation have dreams and aspirations, but are unfortunately boxed in by ' _tradition'_. Velvet simply embodies that feeling through her story."

"That's a common critique. Many people say that it gives women the wrong idea, harking back to the gynocentric tendencies of pre-Panem..."

"I'm sorry, _gynocentric_?"

"Hey beats me..." Marceline says with a smirk and a shrug. "But in layman's terms, apparently your writing throws the traditional dynamic out of whack. Women have roles to play and promoting a feminist view weakens Panem's cohesion."

I let out a scoff. For the first time ever, I've just seen Marceline Devereaux _falter._ Marceline Devereaux, the queen of poise, wasn't confident in her tone. She knows that critique is _bullshit_. I can't help but think back to Vera's words just days ago...

 _"You were_ _selected_ _, let's not be coy." Said Vera, a light chuckle in her tone as she rose to her feet and loomed over me, her awestruck features seem to be replaced with a steely mask. "Like lightning in a bottle, women across the nation flock to your book like they did Marcia Quimby's erotica. Except this time, you offered us a chance to_ _think_ _instead engage of mindless pleasure..." Vera's face grew hot as she smirked._

 _"Not that we don't need that sometimes...but given our current state, it's something_ _they_ _can ill afford."_

It really does make sense now... _Reaped_ because I gave people something to genuinely _think_ about. What a _rebellious_ thing to do, write and talk about issues that affect _everyone._

" _Come on,_ Marceline. Who said that, the same men who benefit from keeping their wives down?" I chided, brushing her off with a dismissive wave. "By that logic _you_ must be a rebel too then?"

Her face flush with unease, Marceline's eyes flicker from side to side. "How so?"

"How many women have sat in _your_ position?" I ask her. It's been Caesar Flickerman since I was little, and three other men post-War. "Look what you've done to get here. I don't see a ring on your finger? What about our _president_? What about the _top Gamemaker_? So when people talk about roles to play...Panem's most proficient people aren't playing as much. You three are Velvets in your _own right_."

"That's a fair observation..." Marceline says while nodding slowly. That uncertainty turns into a slight chuckle. "Women _are_ running this town it seems."

Which makes this critique all the more _hypocritical_. With a woman president, you'd think things would be somewhat better for girls in Panem. In the _Capitol_ , maybe. " _Exactly_...However in the districts, our situations could use some work." I continue. "So _no_ , I _won't_ apologize for inspiring women to move from their comfort zones and _actualize_ themselves." I'm not talking garbage it seems, as women _and even some men_ in the audience woop and holler while rising out of their seats with vigorous applause. A single raise of the hand from Marceline is enough to get them to still.

"And so, in the event you _don't_ make it out of the arena...how will your themes endure?"

I cross one leg over the other. Part of me still believes all this to be so surreal. In twenty-four hours, my time on earth could be very well limited. "Alongside my lovely children, who I miss _very_ dearly, I am currently in talks with my team...so stay tuned."

"And stay tuned we _will_." Marceline replies with a wink. "Now I had a question myself about well... _you_ personally."

"Go on?"

Marceline's face becomes serious, cupping her hands on her desk. "What happened to Jamithon Oskoii, your husband?"

 _He was drinking...again. I guess he was smart enough to scour through our budget books, smart enough to realize some money was missing._

 _"You did WHAT?!" Jamithon roared. Cowered in our living room corner, Darcelle and Marcel clung to my side, the three of us shrieked as his whiskey bottle exploded above us._

 _"I-I-I enrolled into university?" I murmured while avoiding his glare. "I enjoy the material, I could easily make the money ba –"_

 _My vision flashed white as his fist connected with my face. He's got me by the hair now, as he tugged me across the floor._

 _Darcelle could only flail helplessly in Marcel's arms as he held her back. "Mommy!"_

"...He went missing." I reply immediately. "He was known for hiking around the district's fringes. He didn't return that evening when he went...W-Why do you ask?"

 _"You dumb bitch, who the fuck told you you could?!"_

"What inspired _you_ to write?" Marceline asks. "Your bouts of abuse, correct? Jamithon _was_ abusive towards you, right?"

 _All I could do was cover my head as he unleashed his fury all over my body. Every place my hands rushed to protect left the previous area exposed and he would switch to that spot as well._

 _"Daddy, no, stop it!" Darcelle screamed as she clung to his arm. A stiff shove sent her to the floor._

I nod slowly. The nod could easily be wrote off as a nod of unease toward recollecting his abuse toward me, not his ' _disappearance.'_ "Yes..."

Marceline raises a brow. "Have you heard of the term 'self-insert' before?"

"No..." I lied.

"Well, Velvet's married with two kids...Gets her start later on in life just like you..."

I nod slowly. "Yes...and?"

 _I felt myself growing weaker and weaker as with every strike. I don't bother shielding myself any longer. I just wanted to sleep._ _Just as I stated to drift away, I'm jolted awake by a shout. I look up to see Jamithon's face contorted with pain as he attempted to reach around his back. Instead, he collapsed onto the floor – a chef's knife protruding out his back. Behind him, Marcel gazed at his father, mortified._

Marceline holds her gaze toward me before pouting and shaking her head, rolling her eyes. "I dunno...I think its Hermia's wine that's making me go on a tangent." She says, snickering while holding up the bottle for me to see. "Forget it. Let's move on to the present!"

"Ok..." I nod, mentally shrinking further into the sofa as the audience began to laugh. Did anyone read between the lines? I wonder?

 _"Don't worry babies. Shh, shh..." I said to them as I gathered the both of them in my arms. "What happened here is just between you and mommy, ok?"_

With hands on either side of the armrests, Marceline folds one leg over the other. "Why are you in an alliance with Ricardo Marcenas and co?"

"Well, Vera was a big fan of mine and extended the offer." I reply with a smile. "She's a nice girl, it's a shame we're all caught up in this."

"She volunteered for it." Marceline said with a dismissive tone. "But you are aware of the controversy, right?"

"Yes, but like Hermia said, what could a rebellious tribute do in an arena that could _kill them_ at any moment?" I answer with a shrug. If they wanted to, they could blow us _sky high_ before the gong went off. "Why the overreaction?"

"Well, we _did_ just fight a war over troublesome tributes..." Marceline replies in a weary and joking tone. "The government is not keen on fighting again."

"You have nothing to worry about..." I say gently, politely inclining my head. Maybe not from _us_ , but if District Eight's Reaping Day was any indication... "I don't believe this applies to me. My goal is to simply try and survive."

Marceline nods amid polite cheering. Rising out of her seat, she moves to join me on the sofa. "Okay. So, besides literary skill, what do you have to offer this year? A six is a satisfactory score...I'm curious as to how you got it."

"Ah, _bup bup_ , I don't want to give away that _just yet."_ I answer playfully while taping her knee. "Let's just say that I have _plenty_ of other interests that could suit me well in the arena."

Marceline makes a show of pouting. "Ok. I'm sure that plenty of eyes will be watching you. May I...?" she gently collects me by the hand and escorts me to the front of the stage, as she presents me to the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, Alana Oskoii! Good luck Alana, may the odds be ever in your favor!"

I wave to the cheering audience, a smile plastered on my face. "Thank you for all your support!" I say. It's only now just starting to sink in, Vera's words, the stupid line of questioning... How could this place be so _fragile_?

 _"You were_ _selected_ _, let's not be coy." Vera said._

And there was nothing _I_ could do about it. Although judging by the crowds reactions, maybe _they_ could do something about it.

* * *

 _ **Russett Gilmour, 29**_  
 _ **District 8 Male**_

"Sure, District 8 has a rather interesting female this time around, but the male is someone to note as well, as you'll find out _and_ may already know. Please join me in welcoming a Mr. Russett Gilmour!"

I waste no time entering the stage, thought part of me wishes I'd taken my time. As a guy who prefers limited company, the attention and cheers the crowd unnerve me regardless of the how many lessons Janice taught me. I opt for a curt wave and a grin towards the audience before turning my attention to Marceline as I offer her a polite handshake from across her desk.

"Welcome to the stage, Russett." Marceline greets.

"Thanks for having me, Marceline." I reply.

Marceline gestures to her face. "You gotta little something..."

"Oh yeah...that," I say weakly, earning laughter here and there from the audience. The stylists added grease to my face, to play up that factory worker bit. It was a hasty decision, contrasting oddly with the shades in my hair, grey sweater and dark trousers I wore. "The prep team added it for some reason, I told them it didn't really work, but eh."

"I still think you look good." Marceline replies with a wink. "So, your reaping was a little odd...How are you feeling about that?"

"The odds were _most definitely not_ in my favor..." I reply lamely, groaning inwardly at the audience's laughter. Who would've thought that after the factory supervisor blew his brains out on national television to escape the reap that _I_ would be his runner up. I don't recall walking under fifty ladders to get so unlucky.

"They were most definitely not, and I'll tell the people why." Marceline says with a shake of her head. "Russett here is a little something of a _hero_ back in District 8. Do you mind telling us why?"

"The factory I was assigned to caught fire and exploded." I recall, the sights of the accident flooding my mind again. The way the thick black smoke contrasted with the pristine whiteness of the factory was _unnerving_ to behold.

"I heard there were complications?" Marceline inquired.

I snort. "That's a _funny way_ to put it. Due to our _idiot_ supervisor, Rafferty, locking us in, we didn't have a clear escape route." I say bitterly. "Many more people would've died – as they say – if I didn't herd most of them out through a shipping exit."

"Tell me about some of the people you saved..." Marceline asks with concern in her tone.

"There were too many to count." I reply with a shake of my head. "But there's one girl who'll stick with me the most. Her name's Madsyn...Madsyn Voldock." I answer. "I had to uh, escort her away while her father was pinned down by a girder. Too little time to try and help and he insisted we leave."

Marceline leans forward on her desk. Her fists balled up at her mouth. "I believe you were injured trying?"

I respond by simply flashing my scarred, wrinkled palms for the nation to see as a few of them gasp sharply. I briefly remember attempting to hoist the steel beam, Madsyn's screams of urgency and her father's screams of pain mixing together to form sorrowful racket that kept me up for many nights since then.

"I'd like to believe that your efforts were quite heroic." Marceline consoles. "Why, if you didn't have your head on your shoulders, I imagine that that disaster would be _ten times_ worse!"

"I wouldn't really call myself a hero..." I reply lowly. I was just using _common sense_. _Anyone else_ could've done what I did.

"You _lie_ , of course you're a hero! Everyone back home seems to think so!" Marceline turns to the audience now. "And we do too, right guys?!"

The audience roars with applause in response and I can't help but _smile._

"I mean, the wife of Mr. Voldock and Madsyn herself is staying with you currently, correct?"

"Yes they are." I reply with a nod. And yet, despite all the hardship, they were doing a-ok. Madsyn's been such a help with Genevieve, like the little sister she never had. Mrs. Voldock and Clarisse are quite the team, especially with the baby on the wa...Oh _Goddammit_. With all this going on, Clarisse is at home with our son on the way...

"What an immense help that must be for them? What you did is a _noble thing_ , _never_ sell yourself short!" "Speaking of nobility...Your coworkers seem to be misdirecting their anger."

"Oh, how so?"

"Well, you've seen it yourself. The protests are spiraling into something _far greater_." Comments Marceline. "I wanted your opinion on the matter."

"Oh yeah, I was planning to stage a protest or two _myself_." I declare proudly, earning some gasps and musing from the audience.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I'm constantly hearing about changes being made, but as a frontline worker, all I've seen is the status quo. How am I supposed to _"Love your labor and take pride in your task"_ if the basic working conditions aren't met? I bet the Capitol's distribution centers are in good condition?" Marceline raises a finger, but I raise a hand to counter it. No, Panemians need to hear this. If it's the last thing I say, let this be it. "I don't condone outright violence, like we've seen in recent days, but if concerns aren't being met after multiple times, of course people are going to be frustrated."

"So what are you proposing?"

"I am proposing that the Capitol step in improve working conditions. Like _really_ step in. Then maybe things would improve." I reply. No, it wasn't _rebellious_ to want better conditions for us to work in, more safety nets. Not _everything_ has to be related to _rebellion._ "How about we move on to the Games, I'm sure that's what everyone here is interested in?"

"I agree _wholeheartedly_ Mr. Gilmour." Marceline grins while the audience laughs and applauds lightly. "So, no alliance for you, why is that?"

"I've been asked, but I wasn't quite sure if I could trust others so openly."

Marceline nods. "That's fair. Giant alliances are a formula for disaster."

"Exactly," I nod, thinking back to Chris and his alliance. It wasn't exactly one built around trust, but more so _necessity_. "I thought I'd go it alone and if someone comes across me in the arena – and they're down for it – we could sort something out. Otherwise, this may be a solo attempt."

"And from that _training score_ of yours, you're in the position to do _fairly well_ in that attempt."

"Personally, I'm surprised that I did so well." I admit. I thought I'd get a six or something, the elation of our team when the 8 flashed across the screen was something else.

With a smirk on her lips, Marceline jabs a finger toward me. "Don't sell yourself _short_!" she chides, cackling along with the audience. "Now, I know that you have a lot to get back home to...do you mind explaining to us what?"

"I have the most wonderful wife and daughter waiting for me back home..." sighing sharply, I roll my shoulders in a poor attempt to stave off any tears. "I was supposed to welcome a son very soon too."

The audience's sighs of sadness mean _nothing_ to me. Of all the people they could've chosen to reap, they reap husbands, young people and doctors...If anything their reaction is equivalent to kicking me while I'm down.

Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, Marceline and I walk toward the front of the stage. "Do you have any words for them?"

I nod, thankful that she removed her hand. "Of course, I had a letter written but putting a voice to it wouldn't hurt."

She shuffles back a step or two, gesturing towards the entirety of the audience in a sweeping motion. "Alright, go on."

I exhale. In a normal circumstance, I'd shy away immediately from something like this, however this could be the very last time to vocalize my thoughts. I could go on for hours, but I'd be a babbling idiot if I did. So...I just say what comes to mind.

"Gen, be a good big sister to your baby brother. Help your mother out too." I clear my throat and blink slowly, thankful that no tears have fallen...yet. To my surprise, some members of the audience don't seem to have my composure, as they dab their eyes with handkerchiefs.

Why would _they_ be crying...Only the Gods know.

"Clarisse, oh Clarisse...It's been a great three years, hasn't it? I need you to be strong, regardless of what happens in that arena. You and I know how hard it is when parents aren't all there...I love you like you don't understand. I wish I could hold you one last time...Maybe soon."

The crowd lets out a resounding cheer. "Oh...something tells me you'll get your chance soon enough." Marceline winks. "I'm afraid we're out of time, friend. Russett Gilmour, everyone! Good luck to you."

I nod, exchanging one last handshake with the Master of Ceremonies and a final wave to the audience before returning backstage.

I may not be a fancy doctor, famous author, rich or an outright rebel...but _I_ have things to live for _too_ and I'm willing to do _anything_ to get back to them.

* * *

 _ **Verona Kinsley, 63**_  
 _ **District 7 Female**_

"Next up, please welcome Verona Kinsely – the female tribute for District 7!"

With all these stupid twists they put on this year – messing up the orders and changing the goddamn furniture – why couldn't they just line us up and melt our brains with plasma?!

Groaning, I march out onto the stage, shielding my eyes from the _damn_ lights until they adjust, _waiting_ until they do. When my vision finally adjusts, I wave halfheartedly to the crowd that cheers _too damn loud._ It's not like their cheers for me were on par with the other, younger contestants. I'm a _twelve_ year old to them in a regular year, not that I gave a hoot about their thoughts anyway. Marceline steps into view, that stupid grin on her lips as she extends a hand forward.

"Are the lights too bright for you Verona?" she asks.

I give her the weakest handshake known to man. Hell, I barely even gripped her hand and pumped it once. "Yes, you need to turn those _damn things_ down." I snap, taking my seat on the sofa. "Are you _trying_ to screw me up for tomorrow?"

Before she took her seat, she lingers for a slight second. Hermia was right. Marceline's eyes betray the rest of that happy façade. Her pupils are so _beady_. "No, not at all...I'd _never_ try to screw you over _, never ever._ " She says only to turn to the audience and jokingly wink. "You look good tonight, Verona."

"I'm dressed as a _tree_." I deadpan, tugging at the high waist dress. The bottom half was bark-like in pattern and texture while the top half was green – _tree._

Marceline wobbles her head from side to side. "Well...unlike a _chariot outfit_..."

"It's patterned like a _tree_." I seethe one more.

Marceline shrugs "Well, some things _never_ change then." She says to a laughing audience.

I glower, leaning back into the couch to _gain some sort_ of reprieve. Oh my god...can't I just go back to the lounge? Marceline seems to finally acknowledge my mood, her smile turning into a wry little grin as she leans forward on her desk while cupping her cheeks.

"Verona..." Marceline begins with a chiding tone. "Is something the _matter_?"

"Yeah, _there is_. I'm _dying_ soon. So forgive me if I'm a little bummed..." I glare toward the audience as the double over in laughter. Has the dye gotten to their _brains_ or something?! "That's _not funny..."_

Marceline struggles to keep a straight face. "Well, _certainly_ if you apply yourself..."

"I'm _old_ Marceline, stop beating around the bush." I retort, folding my arms. I'm not one of your _friggin'_ twelve-year-olds. "I'm old enough to be any tributes mother, _grand_ mother or eldest sister."

"I bet you wear all those hats back home." Marceline replies with a polite smile. "I hear you run a community home?"

"Yes, I did, until I was taken for no reason to be _here._ " I shoot.

"Well, I wouldn't say 'for no reason'..." Marceline challenges with a slight frown. "Your father _was_ a key part of the rebel cell in Seven. And didn't _you_ have a role to play during the War?"

"I was a _nurse_ for crying out loud!" I clap back. I nursed people to health after they got bombed, gassed, plasma-burned and mauled by muttations...Verona you _menace_ , you! "It was a pretty small role if you ask me. Out of _all the people_ you could've reaped, let me say you chose a _bad batch_ this year..." I'm _not wrong_ when I say that. Celosia and Everett chatter nonstop about the various riots and protests happening in Seven and across Panem. _Hell_ , that Russett boy just brought up Eight's problems.

Marceline shrugs. "There aren't that many significant rebels kicking around anymore..."

I snort. " _Yeah_ , with you guys _constantly_ dangling them from ropes, no wonder you ended up with us..."I reply tersely, to the chatter of concern and hesitant laughter from the audience.

Marceline lets out an airy chuckle. "What a _spitfire_ this cat is! if you apply this anger in the arena, you'll have a decent chance. I heard that you gave the Gamemakers a little taste of that in your private session yesterday." She says teasingly. "They say they _never_ seen an older lady toss things around like you did."

"Hm." I grunt, ignoring the laughter from the audience.

"Tell me about your family...The community home." Marceline says, reclining in her seat. "Maybe that'll spur some _confidence_ in you."

"Seven Oaks was my home _and_ family." I reply, my thoughts swimming with the plethora of faces I had raised since the War's end. There must be at _least_ over a _thousand..._ A thousand souls who are far better off because of _my_ devotion. "I've raised an adopted son, I've raised _so many_ grandchildren, though I only have three officially – they too are from the home. Zara, Jonah, Simona...from birth to eighteen – raised by _me_. I don't think you have any idea how hard it is for children like those in homes. _No one_ will love them like I did. And because of _this_ -" I motion around me. "I can't go back to doing what _I love_."

Marceline nods. "I understand, but unfortunately, the hallmark of Panemian justice _is_ _atonement_ , if not the assailant, then their associates."

"Because an old lady will be _soooo_ entertaining in a death match." I retort, earning idiotic laughter from the audience.

"Speaking of _entertaining_ , why don't we move onto the Games proper?" Marceline says while that faux smile still remains on her face. "You have quite the alliance amassed...What's your take on the controversy it's generating?"

"If you guys are afraid of a kid, and four older adults who are on the tail end of the reaping pool...you guys must be pretty vulnerable." I grouse.

"So nothing is the matter you think? We shouldn't worry?" Marceline inquires with a raised brow.

"What am I going to do, launch an _electrified arrow_ into the force field?" I smirk, relishing for the first time as the audience sniggers. Emboldened, I continue. "Are-are we gonna all survive until the end and have a _polygamous marriage_ with Tobias as its center? Are we gonna be the _'District-crossed lovers'_?" The crowd doubles over in laughter. Seeing Marceline's face as she nods with that stupid smile on her lips while her eyes could probably kill me if looks could makes the moment _all the more savory._

Marceline finally quiets the crowd. "So, what's your endgame Ms. Kinsley?"

"I've made my peace with the probable outcome." I reply with a shrug. "I'm just gonna take things hour by hour and try not to worry as much."

"Well, Vera seems right in saying that this alliance of yours will serve as an interesting player. What role you will play, we'll have to see." Marceline gestures to me from behind her desk. "Unfortunately this conversation needs to end now. Thank you, Verona Kinsley!"

I immediately get up from my seat and retreat backstage. That wasn't half bad, but it _still_ doesn't take away from the fact that we're – _I'm_ – going to die soon.

* * *

 _ **Chris Samera, 30**_  
 _ **District 7 Male**_

"What is _wrong_ with them?" the Assistant yaps while tapping away at his communicuff. "None of them thought to _stop you_?"

"Why would they stop me?" I say sadly, muttering my apologies to a Peacekeeper as I accidentally stumble over their boot. "Tonight is a time for... _celubraaytion_!"

The Assistant bit his lip. "Perhaps you could have _waited_ after the interviews were _through_ to do such things?!"

I shrug, and my hands shoot up a little bit _too high_ for my liking. "I enjoy pre-gaming...sorry." I say lowly as Ms. Kinsley bounds down the steps. I wave to her. "Heey, Ms. Kinsleyy! I just wanted to say you did great out there!"

The older lady smirks while clapping me on the shoulder. "Gee, thanks Chris. Something tells me you'll do _a million times better_."

I smile. "Really...? I hope so!" I say, waving my goodbyes as she leaves down the hall. Ms. Kinsely is such a swell lady. While our mentors are always so serious, she likes to let loose... _like me!_

"Please join me in welcoming Chris Samera to the stage!" a voice says from up the stairs.

"Up, up, up you go!" says the Assistant as the Avox lady helps me up.

"Thank you guys so much," I say to the woman as she continues to push me towards the lights.  
"You're both so very caring and – oh, look at all these people!"

There are _so many_ people in here...like... _so many_. All of them cheering and smiling at _me._ I walk all the way to the edge of the stage, waving back towards the colourful sea of people. "Hey guys, good evening, thanks for 'avin' me!"

"Welcome to the stage, Chris!"

I turn around to see Marceline with her hand extended toward me. Handshakes are so _formal_. So instead, I give her a _biiig hug_ and swing her around.

"An affection one, I can dig that!" she says aloud. She tries to escape by pressing down on my chest, but there's no escaping a hug from ol' Chris!

"Heey Marceline, buddy, it's nice to finally meet ya!" I plop her down on her feet, pumping her hand like one would pump a well handle.

She stumbles back a few steps, exhaling while the audience laughs. I do too. "...Nice to meet you too, Chris." She says, adjusting her shirt. "Please...take a seat! I think that's enough standing for now..."

"Sure thing, Marcy!" I reply, plopping down on her sofa. It was so nice and _comfortable_. "Can I call you Marcy?"

"Why not?" She shrugs, much to the enjoyment of the people watching.

I give her a thumbs up. "Greeat!"

"So, Chris..." Marcy asks from behind her desk.

I tug at the wide lapels of my bottle-green suit, offering a bright smile. " _Yuup_ , that's _me!_ "

As the audience giggles, Marcy smirks. "How do you dig the Capitol so far?"

"How do I like the Capitol... _How do I like the Capitol?!_ " I bellow, rising out of my seat as I stomp over toward Marcy's desk. She shoots me a scared look, so scared I can't help but laugh! "It's _great_! It's a very clean place, the people are pretty friendly!" I point to the audience as they let out a cheer. "And there's plenty of good eats to be had."

Marcy lets out a chuckle. "What's your favourite dish?"

I sit back down with a hiccup. "Hmmm...I think the fried venison is out of this world!"

Marcy waggles a finger in agreement. "That's an _amazing_ choice, or so I hear. Side it off with some potatoes and you got yourself a meal!"

"Mhm!" I nod, and nod, and nod, and nod, _hiccup_ and nod. Marcy's face gets all funny looking, and the people in the audience start to laugh.

"What?" I ask her, smirking as the crowd rumbles again with giggles. She wiggles her head slowly from side to side – and then faster – and then back to slow again. By the end of it, she's like...all over the place. Like her shadow isn't catching up with her, or something.

"Please stop." I chuckle. Any more of that, and I'd be sick _right here._

A smirk grows on her face as the audience can't seem to hold it together. "Something tells me you enjoy the Capitol's _sauce_ as well."

"Yeaaah, your stuff hits _waaay_ different than Seven's...stuff."I reply, hiccupping. "Usually I wouldn't on the count of my wife not liking it, but I thought since _tonight,_ why not indulge?"

"I see...Let's talk about back home. I hear you're pretty popular back in Seven. I think we can see why..."

I let out a mighty chuckle along with the audience. "Life was great in Seven. I did construction – plenty of money to be had there. And I had _the best_ and I mean _the best_ coworkers a fella could ask for!"

"They speak _very highly_ of you, especially your sisters and brother-in-law." Marceline continues. "And we can't forget Mary and your son Patrick. Mary dotes on you very much."

"Yeah, there all pretty great..." I nod, holding my gaze to the floor. "And yeah, Mary's always on my back, but I don't care...she keeps me straight. Patrick is like a mini-me! I don't have to worry. He'll be a good kid." I think back to all the birthday parties, the summer barbecues, the laughs...Most likely, I'll _never_ have a time like that again. When I glance up, Marcy is in front of me with tissues in her hand.

"Chris...your eyes seem to have sprung a leak." She says, handing me the item in question.

"Thanks..." I accept the tissues and dab them at my eyes. "I'm sorry Marcy, it's just that I'm not ready to say goodbye to them yet..."

"I understand. Though there isn't much use in throwing in the towel just yet. Like look at your training score! A lot of Gamemakers are impressed with your skill, so I imagine in an arena you'd perform pretty well."

"Yeah...Yeah, _you're right!"_ I say, chuckling with a snap of a finger. "Thanks Marcy, you're the best!"

Marcy smirks, shrugging. "I didn't really do anything... but a gal never tires of hearing such things." She says, cackling along with the audience. "So I take it that you're ready...After a mug of coffee and a good night's sleep that is?"

I lean back into the sofa, splaying my arms out comfortably. "I'd like to think I'm ready for whatever comes my way!" I reply with a smirk.

"You just might be. They say that you've amassed _quite_ an alliance this year."Marcy muses. " _What_ like _five_ people? I believe that's bigger than the Career pack this year."

" _Yeep_ , I got quite a group of people together!" I reply proudly, grinning while folding my arms. We're like the... _better Careers_!

Marcy makes a gesturing motion with her hands. "Tell me about 'em."

"Ludra's pretty sweet, and Gio's a cool guy, never seen someone swing a mace like he has before! Linden is serious all the time, but I don't blame the...guy. Laelia is the youngest but she seems ready to go. We're _all_ ready to go!"

"This alliance _definitely_ has some lookers, Chris." Marcy replies over the applause. "We look forward to their performance as well as yours. Unfortunately, this interview is through."

"Aww man, but...but I was having _fun_!" I raise my hands in protest. You know what? I don't know _why_ everyone tears them down all the time. These Capitol people are _very nice_. I've never felt so welcome in my _life._

"Time flies when you're having fun..." Marcy chirps. Moving from her desk, she links arms with me as she guides me to the front of the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen – Chris Samera of District 7! Thank you Chris for the interview, I imagine this will be one for the _books_!"

"Thank you Marcy, thank you all!" I pivot on my heels and spin around to head back to the bars...but instead, I spin and spin and spin until I somehow find myself in the arms of two Peacekeepers. "Thanks guys!"

That was _nice_...tributes should do what I do _more often!_

* * *

 _ **Zahira Kazimirova, 33**_  
 _ **District 6 Female**_

I offer a polite smile as a drunken Chris waves to me, escorted by two Peacekeepers. That smile immediately fades as I turn to watch him continue to be towed down the hall. As much as I would _love_ _to_ do the same thing, I prefer being taken _seriously_ much more.

"Celosia, Connor, Everett...Does he do this up in the penthouse?" Marceline asks as the audience roars with laughter. "Here's hoping he gets a cold shower or something. You don't want him stumbling off the plate prematurely. Alright, here we are at District 6. District 6 is currently on everyone's radar due to Izzy Wilkinson putting them there – there you are Izzy – everyone loves Izzy. Will they make it a twofer? Let's find out. Please join me in introducing the District 6 female - just one of our many doctors this year – Zahira _Kazimirova!"_

Thankfully, the lights situation Verona was griping about was solved as I effortlessly transition from the backstage to Marceline's set. It was a little jarring to be the subject of everyone's adoration, even if it was brief. I take it in stride and put on that _Giambrone charm_ – smiling and waving all the way to Marceline's side.

"Zahira, Zahira, Zahira..." the host purrs as she gives me a look-over."You are one _choice_ looking girl in that outfit. Not that you aren't _always_ choice, am I right people or am I _right_?"

The stylist for Six is on the cutting edge of fashion, so it seems, styling me in a flared, silver jumpsuit with a plunging 'V' neckline, matching heels and a black, encrusted ribbon tied around my waist with a headband to accessorize. Everything about it seems to _shimmer_ as the host takes me by the hand and giving me a twirl.

"Hello everyone, and _thank you_ Marceline," I coo back in reply. "I enjoy this outfit too. It's very... _fab._ "

"It's just so unbelievably _fab_..." Marceline gushes, pivoting on her feet and jutting a finger toward the audience. "Fendi, you've _outdone_ yourself this time around. I just might have to get one myself, _ha ha_! Come come, take a seat..."

I obey, sitting on the teak sofa while crossing one leg over the other. Where Marceline was good at making people comfortable, she was just as deft at veering the conversation into uncomfortable territory, as she did with some of the others already. I could only hope that my associates back home kept their mouths shut or that Marceline's ' _assets'_ didn't dig too deep.

"So, what's _your_ doctoral trade Zahira?" Marceline asks with jaw in palm. "We have a scientist and now...?"

"Oh you know...I'm a general practitioner." I reply with a smile. "I'm the person you would see if you booked a normal appointment."

I am _most definitely_ _not_ a part-time chemist who synthesizes morphling for profit and if she were found out by the general public would be tossed off the Ambassador Bridge. So _don't ask._

Marceline doesn't pry any further, instead humming in acknowledgement. "I hear that you work in a local clinic. A lot of people seem to look up to you, as they all sing your praises."

That seems to be a common theme...tributes being from communities in which people _respected_ them. _Why is that_ , I wonder? Unless you want disarray, why take people away who _contribute_ and _matter_?

Instead of vocalizing that, I simply grin. "Yes, I do. East Riverside. It's been there since _pre-Panem_. It's not just me. _All_ our practitioners seem to be people of high reputation. We wouldn't have it any other way. We aid anyone, _no matter what_ their station in life is."

"I hear you guys even have a support dog?" the screen above us showcases the many photos take of the bulldog and patients.

"Yes, my family dog Chevy serves that role very well." I nod, adjusting my glasses. "She's great with the kids that visit us."

"She's smart, beautiful _and_ humble – _what a package!"_ Marceline sniggers as the audience woops in approval.

"I like to credit my parents for sticking with me so I could develop those traits." I make sure to shoot the cameras a seductive wink.

"They're _Giambrones_ – socialites. I would expect nothing less." Marceline replies with a respectful nod. "I also hear that you work with Theilan Caldron...what a twist, eh?"

Yeah _...what a twist_ , a _sick_ twist is what it is. I adjust my glasses. "An unfortunate twist, really. There are more worthy people to be selected as tribute over him. I won't say too much, as you'll be talking to him shortly...but uh, I'm _glad_ there's someone I'm familiar with here with me."

It was a mixed feeling, really. It's nice to have someone you know than a complete stranger, it gives me time to focus on mapping my way through the Games without worrying about my back. However, this friendship is unfortunately going to come to an end one way or another. I just hope I won't have to be the one to end it. If it means getting home to my boys, I will –even if it kills me on the inside.

"That must be ' _good'_ , definitely a plus in a Games scenario – to have that deep of a trust in an ally." Marceline nods as the crowd applauds. "Six is a very small world, it seems. Your husband, Virgil, worked with you all, yes?"

I adjust myself to stave away the pain but it doesn't work. "Yes..."

"And he...?" Marceline continued lowly.

"He passed away, yes. It's been two years now – a bar fight gone bad." I breathe, accepting Marceline's tissues as the tears start to flow. They were a mixture of crocodile tears and bitter tears. The _latter_ because, _yes_ , I did love the man and I gave him two of his likenesses and his departure was all my fault. The _former_ because well, the status quo – drugs and greed strangling Six slowly to death – overrides love and I need _sponsors_.

It's a sour way of thinking about it, but it _really is_ above me and out of my hands.

"But at least he left you two children." Marceline gestures to the screen above which showcases a photo of my boys – Luci and Cyril posing with our bulldog Chevy. Cyril smiles pleasantly with his Panemian boy charms while Lucius, his hair dressed in pomade, in his favorite jeans and leather jacket sticks his tongue out with one eyelid pulled down. I sigh, removing my eyes from the photo. Sure they were in good hands with my parents, but every child needs a _mother_ in their life one way or another. I could only imagine how _spoiled_ they'd get.

I laugh sadly. "Those are my boys...I love them _so very much._ "

"They're like night and day." Jokes Marceline. "The prep and the greaser."

"You're not wrong." I trill in reply. "We like to say that Cyril takes after me while Luci takes after his father."

Thinking about it almost makes the tears come back. Cyril, ever so discreet about my going's on while Luci – too young to dabble in such things – leads his own pack of troublesome friends with an iron fist. He's _definitely_ going to be a troublemaker regardless if I'm there or not. They were good kids, they don't often show softness but if the goodbyes were any indication – the worst happening would _ruin_ them, despite my protestations pleading for them to continue doing well.

"I imagine you're _quite_ the tiger mama." Marceline wonders behind coy eyes and a light smirk. "You'd probably do _anything_ to get back to them."

"We both know how _true_ that statement is..." I reply wryly as the audience giggles along.

"And you have an interesting team helping you...Izzy, Koller, Silvia, Flo...?" Marceline says. "How are they doing? They _did_ win last year, so it's only natural to ask."

I cast a glance toward them – Izzy in particular – who smiles brightly. "They're all perfect. Flo is on the ball with sponsoring and preparing me for tonight and Koller and Silvia offer general advice. Izzy however seems really invested in the whole thing. I can see why she won."

Marceline and the crowd offer heavy applause as the nineteen-year-old begins to blush, afflicted with yet another tic.

"That's _great_. The victors of Six are a rather eccentric trio for sure. I'm not sure how Flo corrals them all the time." Marceline snickers. As the laughter dies down, her face turns serious. "So you and Theilan eh, how will you guys navigate the Games?"

"I imagine we'll regroup and stay together as long as time permits. We both have things we'd like to get back home to, and as I stated prior, it's _nice_ to have a reliable partner."

"How will you guys handle potential conflict? For example, it's noted that you have been a little... _standoffish_ about alliances..."

"Alliances have an expiration date, Marceline." I snort in reply. Even though I wasn't, I couldn't _help_ but feel slighted by that. As if being cautious around literal strangers in a _DEATH MATCH_ was a negative. "And if a tribute isn't lucky enough to have the right partners, _their_ expiry date will be right around the corner. Like I said, it'll be better for the _two_ of us to stick together."

"What about the physicality aspect? Not to put down a sister or anything," Marceline chuckles. "But a 6 seems suitable for you, but a 6 for _Theilan_? Who's the _fighter_ of your group?"

"Theilan isn't a _pushover_. Most people with 'lower' scores end up performing above their station. If he wants a positive outcome for himself, I imagine he knows full well what he needs to do. He just seems like the type of tribute to navigate the Games using alternative means."

"What about you?" asks Marceline. "I imagine that your occupation has jumpstarted your preparedness for these Games?"

I give the older woman a singular, solid nod. Then there's _me_. Though the Careers may have seen me on the first day, I doubt they were keeping track, let alone the other tributes which is _exactly_ what I want. "Yes. My score is a clear reflection of some of the skills I will take in with me. I'd like to say I am prepared. I know what needs to be done. All I hope for is a _little luck_."

"Well, as we come to the end of our time together, allow me to wish you the _best of luck_." She rises from her desk and gestures to me. "Ladies and gentlemen, wasn't she great – Zahira Kazimirova!"

"Thank you for the opportunity, Marceline." I join the Master of Ceremonies in a friendly handshake before politely waving towards the audience. Truly, that could've gone much worse...but it _didn't,_ thank the gods.

With this out of the way it's time to think _ahead_ now, as if I _haven't been_ already.

* * *

 _ **Theilan Caldron, 34**_  
 _ **District 6 Male**_

I exchange a quick smile with Zahira as Marceline introduces me, unbuttoning my jacket as I stride onto the stage proper. It was an out-of-body experience for sure. Everything from the lights, the cheers from the thousands of people watching and finally meeting the host – Marceline Devereaux after years of watching her on holovision – felt _surreal_. She was surprisingly fairly tall and slender, only a head shorter than I was.

"Theilan, welcome welcome!" Marceline greets warmly as she takes my hand and pumps it. I've overheard from various tributes that her eyes were something else. I agree _wholeheartedly._ The light blue of her irises meant that her pupils were pronounced, making her gaze even more intense.

"Thank you Marceline...It's nice to meet you in real life." I reply, taking my seat on the sofa opposite to her desk.

"The pleasure is all _mine_." She purrs in return, gesturing to my suit. "The colour fits you _very_ well."

"Thank you." I say. It was a dark purple, three-piece suit with a black tie, shoes and pocket square. If there's one thing I enjoy about this city, it's their penchant for color. It was nice to get away from the charcoal and light gray suits that dominated Six's business attire.

"Now, there seems to be a lot of compare and contrast with your district partner Zahira..." Marceline says. "Where she is a general doctor, you are...?"

"A counselor." I answer her. "A _psychiatrist_ , to be technical."

"Ahh...a _shrink_!" Marceline exclaims with a snap of her finger. "How is that, working in Six as a counselor I mean."

"I enjoy working and aiding people from all walks of life." I answer. "The clinic I work at is located in an interesting spot – between downtown and the suburbs. No matter what, regardless of the class divide, everyone seems to have _the same_ problems..."

"What problems are those?" Marceline asks.

"That everyone seems to be in their own _little world_ – caught up in the rat race while not maintaining themselves properly..." to many in the district, chems are what they do to 'maintain themselves'. It's an unfortunate cycle.

"That seems to be a problem _everywhere_. _Work work work,_ the dash _never_ seems to end." Marceline agrees with a hum. "What about that Bohemian movement, do you support it? They seem to proscribe a 'slow down' approach to life."

"I enjoy certain aspects of it – philosophical talks, developing hobbies and the like. For example, District Six's art scene is _amazing_. Have you been to Milliken Park?"

"Yes I have." Marceline nods with a smile. "The displays are _out of sight,_ especially that of Six's own Silvia Starr and Koller Ascort. _"_

" _Exactly_ , this is a positive outlet for them and others within the district. So yes, people like Wondr'a for example have it right that we ought to take care of ourselves more. I see this isn't much of a problem in the Capitol maybe, but in the districts – especially Six – interpersonal engagement is something we need a little bit _more_ of."

"It'll be interesting to see how that movement grows as the decade continues..." Marceline says over the applause of the audience. "I enjoy your opinion, Theilan. With how articulate you are, I could see why you were able to disarm that hairy situation during your reaping scene. It touched the hearts of many observers here in the Capitol and at home or so I hear..."

"I just didn't want to see Six punished for something that was out of our control." I answer honestly. I didn't want to be the reason for others' suffering and pain. "The destruction and inevitable backlash would just end up hurting more people."

"I agree. Speaking of _punish_ , what's your take on the skirmishes occurring in various districts? They cite unfairness with the reaping algorithm among other grievances..."

"With all due respect, Marceline, they aren't wrong. I just hope that if there _is_ an increase in violence, the Capitol tries to listen instead of retaliate. Previous tributes have brought up very good points..."

"Such as the Capitol deserving to be war-ravaged?" Marceline asks with a quirked brow.

"Well, not exactly in his case – as sheer anger won't fix anything." I respond. "What I'm _saying_ is that Panem has been in social limbo for about a hundred years now – barring the War in between. People yearn for actualization and I believe that the Quell – and other issues besides that – are in the way of that."

I'm surprised that no one is booing, just lots of chatter. Even looking at the faces in the audience, there are no glares, just lopsided nods and faces scrounged in thought. The presidential box only yields blank stares.

"I understand..." Marceline nods. "But we still exist don't we? Shouldn't Panemians be grateful for what they have? We could be like the rest of the world – in disarray?"

"Just 'existing' with some 'things to do' doesn't work very well, but I digress." I relent. She doesn't quite get it. But with Marceline being from the Capitol, I don't expect her to fully understand even with her educated background. It's weird – she's caught in an interesting paradox.

She's open to hearing about the plight of the districts, yet is resistant to it at the same time. I think there's good in her. It's her environment - and all her years living in it - holding her back.

Marceline holds my gaze with a coy smirk on her lips. "Good talk Theilan...I think you've given us plenty to think about. I wonder what Zahira thinks about your talks, as you two _do_ work in the _same clinic._ How is she as a coworker?"

Come to think of it, of all the years we've known each other, I've barely scratched Zahira's surface. Neha probably knows more than I do, but not by a lot. She does throw herself headlong into her work, even more so after Virgil's unfortunate death. I assume that she likes to keep her personal life private from her public one. I think we would both agree in saying that we were on friendly terms – _now_ more than ever. "She's uh, very dedicated – almost _too_ dedicated. But in a district like Six, we kind of have to be."

Marceline nods as the crowd applauds. "Are _you_ dedicated?"

 _More than you know, Marceline._ "You have to be – doing what I do." I answer. Life in Six can be very stressful. It even shows in our teenage tributes when we send them here. "I try to set people straight as best as I can."

At times, it's like pulling weeds. You pull one person off the edge, twenty more are about to take the plunge. It's hard when no one seems to care and your resources are somewhat _finite_. You can't just schedule once-a-month check-ins and leave it at _that_. I take the time to be consistent with e _veryone_ I meet. It results in more cases being solved than _lost_ and less time laying awake at night contemplating how you could have done things differently.

"That seems to line up with what people back at home say about you and Zahira." Marceline agrees. "People seem thankful for your work."

Then why REAP us?! You know how much we mean to our communities yet you go ahead and select authors, fathers, reputable young people and doctors?! Then you guys have the audacity to say that people are rebellious for acting out violently?

I simply offer a sad smile. "I like to see myself as an instrument to their success, not the outright reason. I accept their praise, but don't bathe in it. Change comes from within most of the time."

Applause. "Why the humbleness from Six this year?" Marceline jeers, glancing towards the audience and then shrugging. "You guys must grow into it or something because normal tributes from Six are anything _but_ humble – except you Izzy." More laughter and cheers from the audience. "I hear your wife works with you too?"

" _Neha_ – yes, she does." I breathe, the thoughts of Neha bringing on an odd mixture of sadness _and_ elation. "I can't begin to tell you how _amazing_ it is to _live and work_ with someone who shares the same passions as you do."

My head fills with countless moments of baking, aiding in her knitting or engaging in professional research – our version of the _perfect date night._ Sure, we have our rough spots like many couples, but _all_ were _good_ memories. Yet the ability to create more has a potential to be snuffed out – and for _what_ really?

"You two have a son together and another child on the way..." Marceline says with worry in her voice.

"Yes we do." I reply solemnly. "Though I know she'd do a great job raising them, I'd like to return and _be there_ for them."

It's like me and my old man all over again, but this time Tanav will be too young to have proper memories of me and Aesha will _only_ know of me from memories of others. _Again_ , there weren't any relatives of high-ranking rebels to reap this year...?

Marceline nods. "Having such a tight-knit alliance _should_ aid you in doing that...However, you are _aware_ that as the numbers dwindle..."

"Yes, I'm more than aware, but any outcomes are out of my hands." More like I didn't want to talk _about that_. It was a mutt in the room. A mutt that Zahira and I didn't want to confront just yet or even _at all_ from what I see. We haven't even _spoken_ about it. It's a bridge we'll have to cross very soon.

"That's fair. Just focusing on what's in front of you is often the best strategy." She admits. "What about that training score...does your occupation loan to any in-Games skill?"

"I joked to Zahira a few days ago that I'd use my words as a weapon of choice." I reply, a small chuckle escaping my lips as the crowd laughs along. I wasn't entirely joking. Everyone talks about the stakes being so high and violence being the only response, but I imagine that people value living just a little bit longer too. That's were reasoning comes in. If there's anything I'm good at, it's reasoning. "But no, I just showcased what I learned and left it at that."

"Mhm...I've heard from our Gamemaker friends that you had certain... _inhibitions_." Marceline noted with a playful tone while wagging her finger at me. "Though I don't doubt your perceptive abilities, I would keep your weapon handy just in case. Something tells me that although a viable way of doing things, the tributes this year aren't so keen on _reasoning_ with their opponents."

I give a non-committal grunt in return. I'd like to believe that not everyone will lose their inhibitions once the gong goes off. _I know I won't._ It's rare, but humanity does shine through the darkness of the arena – and I aim to keep _my humanity_ for as long as possible.

* * *

 _ **Tuesday Suetos, 44**_  
 _ **District 5 Female**_

"And now, we're onto District 5 – Power, among other things. Like Piper Malveaux of the present and Finch Emerson of yesteryear, the tributes here always seem to have a quirk to them...Maybe it's all the static in the air, I dunno."

From the stage edge, I let a groan escape my lips as Marceline's puppet audience let out another round of laughter. Don't they _ache_ from their constant sniggering...?

"Their female seems to be no different this time around. Please join me in welcoming Tuesday Suetos to the stage!"

With that being said and done, I quickly enter the stage proper and wave to the audience with the same speed. Marceline attempts to side hug me, but instead, I offer a handshake. We were not properly acquainted for hugs. Also, prior study of her mannerisms while in the lounge prompts me to think that she is a rather domineering person. Not in terms of physicality but mentality. One should never be at ease with a Hunger Games host, for _obvious_ reasons.

"Hi Tuesday, that's quite the outfit you have on!" Marceline offers.

I glance down at the stupid thing I'm currently wearing. It was a nurses dress through and through with a bright red cross on the chest of the apron. It was the epitome of _'on the nose'_. "I hate it."

"Why?" Marceline snickers, her gaggle joining her.

" _Because_ , I'm a _surgeon,_ not a _nurse_." I grumbled. "My job is to patch you back up, not heal you back to health."

Marceline frowns. "Surgeons heal..."

My thoughts fill with burnt husks and irradiated flesh-bags with insides resembling a _hot pocket_. "Not in Five they don't."

"I take it you've seen a many great deal of things while doing your job?"

I nod. "Far too many." I reply. "Which is why I would've rather been dressed up as a _grim reaper_ than a nurse..." when nobody seems to laugh, I add "...That's a joke of course."

The crowd chortles hesitantly while Marceline simpers lowly. I'm unsure why they're apprehensive. We're celebrating _one hundred years_ of death. "We'll get back to that in a second. But first, let's talk about Tuesday the person! What do you do in your free time?"

"Cut people open." I deadpan, earning laughter from the audience. It was true. There is very little free time with a job like mine. At this point, doing procedures _was_ a hobby in of itself.

"No _really_ , what do you like to do?"

"Find sarcastic things to say." The laughter amplifies and I swear for the first time in a long time, I _smirk._ When Marceline shakes her head, I relent, answering "I enjoy spending time with my Capitol Shorthair cat."

"I _demand_ to know its name!" Marceline gushes, leaning forward on her desk.

"Doctor Whiskers." I murmur, twiddling my index fingers as I endure the onslaught of giggles that come from the audience. To my surprise, they show a picture of him, which prompts the onlookers to coo and awwh in response. Of all the things to miss in the event of my death, Dr. Whiskers is on the top of the list. I hope Marissa takes proper care of him. Knowing her, she'll probably paint more murals of him.

"What a cutie he is. I'm more of a dog person but cats are interesting too." Marceline comments with a shrug and a goofy smile. "A big brain like you _has_ to read, what do you like?"

"Well...I had a Stephen King fetish before this." I admit. I had shelves upon shelves of books back home. My local library will be delighted to receive them if it comes to that. Still, the thought of never seeing my books again saddens me.

There are a couple of claps in the audience as Marceline's eyes twinkle with surprise. "Oooh, what's your favorite?"

"It has to be _Misery_." I nod. More sporadic cheers from the audience...I'm surprised there are so many Capitolites of substance in one place.

Nodding, Marceline smirks while humming in agreement. "I prefer _The Mist_. They're remaking the movie you know."

I cross one leg over the other. "You'll have to summon me on an _ouija board_ and tell me all about it."

A slight smirk appears on my lips as they all begin laughing again. I can't help myself, honestly. I think of it as a coping mechanism more than anything else. Marceline doesn't seem to mind though as she chuckles loudly, her groupies along with her.

"You are quite the card, Tuesday." She beams. "I can see why Mr. Jaxter is endeared to you!"

Kanton... "Endeared to me?" I repeat. Goofy Kanton Jaxter, who chats a zillion words per minute and can't take a hint _likes me_...Interesting. Perhaps my dislike of connections rendered me blind to the hints. What a shame.

"He likes you _very much_ , my people say. Says you're a unique person – which is true, I find."

Surprisingly...Some way, somehow, I find myself feeling _sorry_ for him. Just for him, I turn my attention to the cameras. "Dr. Jaxter is a nice man and I wish him well."

"What about your family and other coworkers?

"I assume they'll be fine without me – my coworkers I mean." I reply. My mother and father were rather upset, but again, they'll be ok if the worst should happen. "My sister is quite popular on the art scene as you may know. She'll take good care of our parents."

"Oh yes, Marissa Suetos! Her art pieces are quite popular...especially with me as you can see."

The screen above us showcases an art piece centered on Marceline herself, her face in varied colored variations. The crowd eats it up, as per usual. At least the Suetos name will carry on with _some_ form of positivity.

"So Tuesday..." Marceline muses, glancing down from the screen to me. "Let's get back to your _'grim reaper'_ comment. I bet that won't be a joke once the gong goes off."

"I suppose _not_." I answer.

"It's a common opinion among Games fanatics to assume that non-Careers sporting a 7 have a very specialized skill set...So I'll take you at your word." Marceline teases with a gentle smack of her desk. "What about alliances? Surely you need someone to watch your back?"

"I have been proposed _multiple_ times." I reply to numerous "Ooohs" from the crowd.

"So I hear...But you declined them. Why is that?" Marceline asks. "Especially the other doctors, all of us here were looking forward to seeing that."

"I apologize to those of you out there who were anticipating such an alliance. I just prefer to work alone, especially in a Games like these. The stakes are far too high."

"That's a smart mentality to carry – a _fair_ mentality at that." Marceline comments with a slight nod. "Would you consider teaming in the area if it suited you?"

A knowing smirk spreads across my lips. "Perhaps I've made a _mutual agreement_ or two..."

"There we go! That's one more thing to look forward too!" Marceline cheers. "With that being said, do you consider yourself prepared for tomorrow's festivities?"

I offer a simple nod. "I am _very much_ prepared to utilize my skill in the arena as soon as possible."

I mean, what else is there to say? All that's left is the arena and twenty four pieces of walking meat waiting to be cut open – some of which by me.

* * *

 _ **Geronimo Busan, 24**_  
 _ **District 5 Male**_

As I smile at her, Tuesday only offers me a blank glance before returning backstage. Sure she was a little...brusque, but part of me couldn't help but feel sorry for her. If anything, her interview showed me that everyone has interesting quirks. All a guy has to do is invest a little time to find out. Although in Tuesday's case, not many people seem to take the time out to do so.

"Next up, we have the male half of this duo. You'll find this next tribute to be an interesting contender for the crown for numerous reasons, as we'll find out right now. Please welcome _Geronimoooooooooo Busan!_ "

Piercing through my nerves was a sharp laughter. It's been _so long_ since someone poked fun of my name like that, it caught me off guard. I immediately greet Marceline, hugging her from the side while using my free hand to greet the laughing and cheering crowd.

As suckish as the situation is...it wouldn't help me to stomp out here like Ricardo did. No one has seen him since his whole ordeal.

"Do you get that a lot?" Marceline asks me as the cheers die down. She gestures to the sofa.

"Not recently, no." I answer, taking my seat. "I was happy to hear it though."

"Well, I'm glad I could brighten up your day." Marceline chirps while waving a hand toward my suit. "Nice duds by the by..."

"It's always a treat to dress formally."I reply. You couldn't go wrong with a navy and brown houndstooth suit with a brown turtleneck underneath and matching pocket square.

"So, as I was saying to the crowd just now, you seem to be one of the tributes better suited for the arena. Do you care to explain why?"

"Well, I'm an explorer – _a tour guide_ – for the University of Panem, but being an explorer is the same thing, I say." I reply with a light chuckle. The crowd seems to find this amusing too.

"So you tour students around former arenas?"

"Yep." And I could be doing it now if I _wasn't chosen._ I don't know too much about my dad – who is unfortunately a contributing cause to my reaping percentile and selection – but I do know that he wasn't a rebel of significance, or so my mother tells me. If anything, shouldn't I be what young people aspire to be, law abiding and hard-working?

"Which arenas are your favorites?"

"The urban ones," I answer. "HG 76, 77 and 99 for example. Besides the Games that occurred there, there's a lot of artifacts and stories to be told among them." I point towards the Host. "What about _you_ Marceline?"

Marceline gestures around her, earning laughter from the audience. "I'm partial to this one and this year's – when we _see it_ of course! HG 76 was amazing and 95 was neat too."

I make a show of shuddering. "Oh...That one gave me nightmares for _weeks_..."

Everyone in school was talking about those Games for the longest while. Not only did you have to contend with live tributes, but the _undead_ too. Rafaela Novia – the victor of those Games – was one tough fifteen year old.

"Those Games were truly something." A jokingly frightful Marceline agrees. "So, what do these excursions do for you in terms of right now?"

"Well, being exposed to different biomes opens me to a variety of skills."

"Such as...?"

"You know...general survival." I reply with the smallest hint of a shrug. "Where people say that tributes from certain districts know how to survive because of their _industry_ , I have practical experience from actually being in those biomes."

"I see. And because of this love for travel, people have a nickname for you..."

"They call me Gio – you know, like _geography?"_

"It suits you." Marceline says, grinning from ear to ear. "So when finally come home from your travels and you put up your hat, what else do you do?"

" _Well_ , I am a _pet guy_..." I reply meekly.

Marceline raises her brow with surprise. "Are you now, whaddya got?"

"Well, there's Pheonix the ferret...Perry the parrot and Abraham the hamster." I chuckle slightly when the girls in the audience twitter with glee.

"Chicks dig a man who loves animals..." remarks Marceline with a wink. "Who'll take care of them?"

"My mama will." I answer. She loves them just as much as she loves _me_. Thinking about her all alone in her house tending to them if the worst does happen _upsets_ me.

"Your _mama_ eh, tell me – what would you do if _you_ took the crown?"

"Mama is definitely coming with me to Victor's Village that's for sure." I answer. "Though personally, I'd like to go farther with my travels. Instead of just going around Panem, I'd go _beyond_ that. I hear Annabelle Starling and Celosia Vale often do that."

Marceline, her face lit with surprise, points a finger toward me. "Yes, _they do_ – I almost forgot! Yes, both Annabelle and Celosia are quite adventurous, you'd fit in well. You're well on your way to seeing this dream through, as that training score is quite impressive."

I nod while the crowd cheers. "Thanks, I was actually pretty surprised when I got it..." I say.

"Do you mind sharing what you did?"

"Oh you know, I explained my knowledge of arena's and my strategies...and, I showcased my skill with a mace."

The crowd gasps. " _You_ , using a _mace?"_ Marceline exclaims.

"Yeah, why not!?" I blurt, shrugging as the audience laughs. "I've seen them in books all the time since I was a kid. I'm here now, so why not try them out?"

The audience applauds as Marceline nods and hums in agreement. "Let's see here, you've got the weapon...you got some of the skill...what about allies?" she asks, listing off each one.

"You've already met 'em all. But as for what I think, I'm glad to call Linden and Chris allies. They both have a lot of potential. Laelia was a new addition, but when I watched her before she got with us, she seemed decent enough. Donna – or uh Ludra – she's _very_ supportive...Snow Islander's are great additions to alliances."

Most of that was true. Except for Donna...she was very standoffish to everyone except Chris and sometimes Laelia, no matter how much I tried being friendly to her, she only puts a quarter of the effort back. She never really did train, only _watched_. If she was planning to mooch, she has another thing coming.

Marceline caught onto something maybe, as a slight grin spreads across her lips. "With so any people, can you really trust any of them? You all seem so _varied_..."

"Alliances are, like you said previously, a limited time thing. They'll change constantly as people fall..."

"And what if they fall because of one of you?" Marceline interjects. "People may _seem_ friendly now, but when you least expect it..."

"I try not to think about that. Sure, that's a bad strategy, but it's also a bad strategy to constantly worry." I reply. I feel emboldened when Marceline nods along, so I continue. "I prefer allowing the currents to take me where they may lead."

Just like with this entire ordeal. All we can do is accept the hand we get and attempt to adapt.


	30. Interviews! - Part Three

**A/N:** I have a poll out. It's about who you think will win. Would you kindly go ahead and vote? Thanks for voting in that prior poll about the victors.

* * *

 ** _Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games  
_** ** _Interviews! - Part Three._**

* * *

 _ **Nautia Novakova, 29**_  
 _ **District Four Female**_

"Weren't those some great Hunger Games moments?!" Marceline squeals as the crowd responds in kind. She gets helped up by Peacekeepers as she strides to her desk and sits down again. "I agree wholeheartedly. Here's hoping there are many, _many more_. Now, let us continue onto our _final four_ districts. I know for a _fact_ that you guys are excited for them, no?"

That coy grin Marceline is known for splits her face in half as the audience roared their response for a full thirty seconds, tops. "Alright then, here we are at District 4– Fishing! Our female contestant for Four is an interesting case. _Sure_ , all tributes have a quirk or two about them but I'll let her explain them herself."

As Marceline gestures to me, the spotlights illuminate me for good measure. The crowd gets a kick out of that as they ooh in surprise.

"May I introduce to you all here tonight a Ms. _Nautia Novakova._ "

"Thank you for the warm intro Marceline..." I reply as evenly as possible as I make a show of smoothing down my teal dress. I wasn't thankful _at all_. In fact, I was rather upset for _obvious reasons._

"Don't mention it Nautia. In fact, I should be thanking _you_ for _your service!_ You're a sailor in the Panemian Navy, correct?"

The crowd cheers as I try my darndest to appear level. Does she _hear_ herself? Do they realize what they're cheering for?! One of your own Peacekeepers was _reaped_ for the Games and no one bats an _eye_...What a way to thank me for serving _'my nation'._

"Yes, I am a sailor in the navy." I answer with a simple nod and smile.

"A lot of us are tone-deaf to that part of Panem's military. Are we hear about are the Corps guys, but _never the Navy_. Please elaborate for the audience."

"Well, as Mr. Marcenas put it..." I begin, pausing as the crowd bursts with laughter. I feel poorly for invoking his name, but he brought it upon himself to do what he did. "We protect Panem's nautical territory while conducting expeditions into _new_ territory. As you may know we have our own Peacekeepers – Expeditionary Force – for that reason."

" _Very interesting_. If anything, you are privy to how much of a _drag_ the outside world must be. What do you do in the Navy? What's your occupation?"

"I am a full lieutenant and serve as an engineering officer aboard the destroyer _PNS Aries."_ I answer, waiting until the applause died down. "The outside world can be very rough, but _beautiful_ too. The people we've encountered don't have it as good as we do."

A half truth and a half lie. People outside of Panem's confines were _the definition_ of the _lowest of the low._ They had very little foot, constant conflict over the smallest of resources, no power – most of the time – no luxuries to speak of and live in derelicts...but not having to worry about being selected to fight to the death? If you ask me, the scales don't even out.

I love my nation, but I can't help but feel _wronged_.

Marceline nods along as more praise gushes from the audience. "Where have you been?"

"I've been to China, the Gulf of District 11, Snow Island and the Carib. Though as you may imagine, I prefer patrolling home turf."

"Of course, nothing beats patrolling between Snow Island, District 4 and 11." Marceline replies. "Now apparently this occupation has given you more than just a good paycheck and a sense of accomplishment...?"

"Yes, I met the _love of my life_ – Idelia Accoune – while going about my duties." I answer fondly. I never thought I'd say that so _openly_. They – the Capitol – don't seem to care though, as they clap and cheer at the news, coupled by a photo of Idelia and I in a loving embrace.

"And for those of you who don't know, Idelia Accoune is the assistant to Hudson Nash, one of Panem's leading marine biologists...How did you guys meet?"

"Well, you may have heard a year or two ago about a giant squid damaging our equipment? Well she and her team were brought in to identify it. I only saw her in passing, but I just had to speak to her – so I did. From there, it was history."

Scenes of happy dinners, stargazing and beach outings flood my mind. All of that has a chance of being lost _forever._ Marceline hums happily in acknowledgement, her eyes seems to be focused not on my face but elsewhere.

 _"Is that an engagement ring?"_ She inquires while perching over her desk. "Come come... _Everyone_ needs to get a good peek at this...How did this come to be?"

Reluctantly, I flash the silver, woven, diamond-encrusted band toward the cameras. Usually, a woman would be more than happy to showcase her ring to anyone who cared, but showing it off _here_ , to people who are _anything but_ caring feels _wrong_.

"We were at the beach..." I reply. "I'll _never_ forget that night." I contemplate sharing the words of defiance and yearning Idelia professed to me that night, but I hold my tongue. I've said _enough_ already and they don't deserve to hear those words.

"I see. Now I know that Idelia is a woman of good taste." Marceline purrs.

"She often says I'm _'too damn huggable'._ " I reply bashfully.

"She's not wrong at all!" the host replies with a joyous cackle. "I mean _look at you_. Most military women I've met are pretty rough around the edges, but that individuality of yours shines through."

Snickering, I flash her and the audience a smile. "I try to skirt around the mold when I can."

"Mhm...And what of your other family, what can you tell us about them?"

"Well, since my late teens or so, my sister Loire and I decided to tough it out on our own, because you know...reasons. And do you mind if I say a thing or two about Loire?"

Marceline nods in earnest while gesturing to the audience. "Oh yeah, the floor is yours Nautia!"

"Loire is a great girl. Despite all the abuse she went through, she's still paving her way. I couldn't ask for a better sibling and I hope that despite our situation," I sigh, thankful that I managed to keep my tears at bay. "She'll continue to improve upon herself and not let the past define her."

A pleasant smile splits Marceline's face in half. "How _thoughtful_ of you. So you guys in a rough patch, and were moving around a lot and thanks to a Mr..."

"Michal Conway."

Marceline inclines her head. "... _Michal Conway,_ you guys found solid ground especially Loire?"

"We're forever indebted to him, though he insists otherwise." I nod. "Nice is such an overused word when used to describe someone, but you could put his face next to the word in a dictionary because that's how _wonderful_ of a human being he is. If you're ever in District 4, go to Conway's Supermarket!"

"My people have nothing but praise for him and you all heard it here first, Conway's is the place to go." Marceline chuckles softly. "...They all are rooting _very hard_ for you."

"I _know_. It's all so much." I answer with a nervous giggle. "I don't want to disappoint them."

Yet the chances for that to happen are _so very high..._

"Many would say that you _won't_." Marceline snips back with that coy smile of hers. "Look at your score for example, it's _quite_ impressive."

"Thank you, Marceline. Being a Peacekeeper seems to do wonders in a Games scenario."

"So why didn't you join the Career pack?" she asks. "I think it has to do with that _huggableness_ your fiancé was talking about. You lack that ' _edge'_...Which may or may not be a bad thing..."

"I wouldn't say I lack the 'edge'..."

"So why not join?"

"You'd think I would join them, but I think that this year calls for a more...muted approach." I explain. This earns giggles from the audience. "Yes, the Careers are and will be effective, but far too volatile, especially when the stakes are _so high_."

"So your strategy is one of level-headedness?" Marceline asks.

I nod. " _Exactly_. I owe it to, Loire, Mr. Conway and my love to make it back home to them."

"Sounds like a decent strategy to me." Marceline comments over joyful applause. "And something tells me that many people are hoping that you're able to deliver. Thank you for the pleasant conversation, Ms. Novakova!"

Flashing a smile to the audience, I envelop Marceline with a side hug and wave as I dismount the stage.

I did what I came here to do. Everything is for the most part going well. However, I still can't seem to shake off the senselessness of it all...

 _ **Warren Holt, 19  
District Four Male**_

"That was a warm conversation." Marceline trills with a beaming grin. "Any betting man worth their salt wouldn't sleep on a tribute like that. And they _shouldn't_ with the next tribute. Some say he's the next Finnick Odair and _I say_ that _you guys say that every time a Four male walks on stage..."_ The audience bursts out with laughter. "Give it up for Warren Holt!"

I march onto the stage proper, waving and point all the way to the edge. "Hello guys, Marceline, happy to be here!"

The cheers of the crowd are _overwhelming_ but _relishing_ at the same time. It feels great to have so many people cheering for you and you _only._

"Hello Warren. Those are some _snazzy_ threads, they look comfortable!"

"I'm not gonna lie Marceline, it feels _amazing_." A tan suit but instead of dress pants you wear dress _shorts_? You can't complain. Despite how crowded this venue was, there was a good breeze coming in from overhead, which aides in the feeling of being uninhibited.

"Come, take a seat. You guys can drool at him from over here now..."

I take a seat on her comfy teak sofa, reclining back and crossing a foot over the knee. I was eager to get my time in the limelight. Though I wasn't really keen on Marissa's advice to take the humble route of things – something about everyone being tired of the bitchy, whimsical Career route – I imagine that Marceline will make the interview worth everyone's while regardless.

"So, Warren," Marceline begins with a joyous trill. "What brings you to my stage? Besides two others – one conventional and the other...unconventional – you're the only other young person to volunteer. Why is that?"

"Oh you know, I would like to do Four proud and with Snow Island being a little _predisposed_ this year, that might be an easy goal to achieve."

"Yes...Besides Milani Barassi, Four seems to be losing its place in favor of Snow Island." Marceline agrees. "You know what they say...Snow Island is the pampered little sibling to Four's middle child!"

"Hopefully we can change that." I reply, smirking among the audience's laughter.

Marceline nods along. "Maybe, maybe...But there has to be something _more_ than just bringing honor to Four, right?"

"My grandma has been there for me ever since my mother passed. She's quite sickly, so maybe I could use my victor status to owe her one."

"That's an admirable goal. How is life, you know, with mom gone and your grandma sick...?"

"It goes surprisingly well. My grandma has Hudson Highland – _swell guy by the way_ – son of a local doctor helping her out from time to time. Also, Four isn't a chaotic place by any stretch, which makes dealing with things easier...You know, because of the environment?"

"That's true, the open air must be working wonders on her. Things would be worse in an urban district I'd imagine..."

I nod. " _Exactly_. I spent most of my time before this working as a physical trainer. My sister seemed to be my number one client at the time, but I don't mind."

"Sources tell me that you wanted to volunteer last year, but backed out?"

"Yeah...My grandmother had a health scare. I didn't want to be elsewhere while she was...you know..."

Even though it feels like I was head of the household and it was me who was taking care of most of the business, Grandma still had sway in most of my decisions. We may not be 'close', but I love her regardless.

"And now here you are with us, I see..."Marceline muses. "Now, what say you about these opposing alliances being formed? Some people are saying they might swamp you guys..."

"Oh please, the rag-tag team of _washed-up_ rebels and a _way too big_ alliance bound to collapse and collapse _hard_?" I snort along with the chuckling audience. "At the end of the day, everyone has a stake and the stakes are especially big this year. I'm not too worried myself."

Hands cupped to her mouth, the host nods. "Mhm...As you might've noticed, we had some Hunger Games junkies observe your training sessions..."

"Yeah, I saw." He spent some time courting them when he found their eyes on him.

"...And they say that the cohesion with this year's pack isn't all that great. What are your thoughts?"

He isn't wrong per se. This entire decade has been a mess in terms of Careers. Sure, we've had Career victors, but in terms of generic Career packs, they just weren't doing very well. Joyceta and Francisco were dismissed because of their age, but blew everyone away, Rafaela left hers and Milani fought too much with the other Career females so the pack dissolved.

And _us_...? Well, Sarissa is a typical Two – control, control, control. Thames is pleasant enough and Sol is an enigma. Oh, and the females from One and Four are out of the equation. What's a Snow Island again?

"I think we're fine. All of us have stable heads on our shoulders." I explain, attempting to keep my look and tone level. "Sure, every alliance has disagreements but we know what's at stake. When the Games do kick off, due to the virtue of the quell, I think the pack will do better than those who came before."

"What about you, Warren? What do _you_ bring to the pack, as a young person – the youngest of the bunch?"

I motion listlessly with one of my hands. "Isn't Solomon a young person?" I counter, maintaining my passive outlook. What does anyone have to offer, besides competence as compared to a normal year? Why did I have to be given that question?

"Unlike Fours, Twos are consistent in their delivery." Marceline retorts with a pointed finger and a sly smirk. " _That_ and the other members of your group are fairly established in terms of potential skill. And also...They – debatably – have more at stake."

She's known for her curve balls, alright. Inwardly, I was cringing like there was no tomorrow. Outwardly, I simply snort and flash a smile...Wait, what was I going to say to counteract that? I ease upward and clear my throat while the host continues to smile that wolfish smile of hers.

"I don't have so much to offer the other members of the pack but rather I have things to offer to _my_ success in the Games overall..." I say.

Marceline spins herself in her large, leather chair. " _Things_ such as...?"

"Confidence, optimism..." I drawl with a roll of the hand. Fake it until you make it. "I'm looking forward to getting things done, with the pack as mutual partners. I owe them nothing and they owe me nothing besides a mutual agreement not to turn on each other until the time is right."

"If you say so..." Marceline replies in a sing-song tone. She spins towards the audience, asking "Do you agree with the young man?"

A sizeable amount of people scream back in the positive.

"Some people have your back." She hums, jerking a thumb toward the audience. She extends a hand toward me from over her desk, and I quickly take it. "Hold onto that confidence, my man. You're going to need a lot of it come tomorrow and the days following."

" _Self_ - _Confidence_ is my middle name, Marceline." I beam in reply, leaning in toward her while playfully looking both ways. "It's Westbrook, but don't tell anyone that!"

Marceline glances toward her laughing audience with a gleeful expression. "This was Warren ' _Self-Confidence'_ Holt, everyone! Here's hoping he and his crew could _break the mold_ , hehe."

I tentatively release her hand and wave to the audience. I couldn't shake off that question – _what do you have to offer?_ I'm a Career, that alone is worth its weight in a Games. It's no matter, I'll just go in there tomorrow and 'prove' myself, as if my odds, appeal and scoring haven't already.

 _ **Maia Clear, 19**_  
 _ **District Three Female**_

"Moving along now to District 3 – Technology! Threes are _always_ tributes that contribute _something_ to the Games. This year is no different. Our next tribute is described by others as a bit of a overachiever – durr its District 3! Instead of picking others' brains, how about we pick hers for a change?! Please join me in welcoming Maia Clear to the show!"

If there's one thing that my parents instilled in me besides the typical Three traits – it's _poise_. All those dinner parties will pay off, it seems.

It almost feels like I'm an automaton. One leg after the other, I sashay my way onto the stage with a smile as bright as the moon above. Compared to the Fours, the audience reacts fairly well to me. I could even hear a few sporadic hollers and cheers among the applause. I initiate the hug with Marceline, which she reciprocates with no hint of aversion. I then take my seat, legs crossed with my hands cupped over and offer the cameras a polite grin.

If that wasn't a good start I don't know what is. Now if only my leg could stop trembling...

"Hello Maia." Marceline beams with a pearly white smile. "You look nice this evening. The dress, the chignon..."

"Hello Ms. Devereaux." I reply with a quick nod. "I enjoy the classy look very much."

"I could only imagine, with that background of yours." She replies with a wink. "How's the Capitol treating you so far?"

"It treats me well. The food choices are excellent and the cityscape is refreshing. Although, I wish I were here under different circumstances."

"Why is that?"

"Well, I was slated to attend the University of Panem's Capitol Campus."

I can't help but grin – albeit sadly – when the crowd let out a cheer. Marceline nods with a grin on her own lips.

"Is that so? Which campus and what program were you going to attend?" she asks me.

"I was planning to attend the Ravenstill School for Politics and Civil Service." I reply proudly. The crowd cheers so much my ears _pop_. Though this time around, instead of bashfully grinning, my smile falters, as I realize that cheering in this context is an _oxymoron_.

You all do realize that you're losing a rising brain...right, a _loyal_ rising brain?

"We have a future politician on stage, just like her mom and dad!"

 _Not necessarily. That future is in jeopardy because of a poorly thought out Quell twist._ "I suppose so. I've been versed in politics ever since I could walk and talk, so it's only natural."

Marceline points up to a copy of the _Portland Tribune_ displayed on a screen above us. The front cover depicts a baby me on the shoulder of my father with my mother as they greet the crowd around them. _"My Little Secret Weapon"_ was the headline.

"Look at that, I suppose you're right." Marceline cooed as the crowd does along with her. That was the very same copy I had in her bedroom. I couldn't help but recall when the last time he had ever done something equivalent to that.

He and Mom always said their congratulations, but never a kiss on the cheek or a hug or even a ruffle of her hair...

"So, where did you want to go, national or district politics?" asks Marceline.

"Well... _Assemblywoman Clear_ sounds nice...Or even _Senator Clear_ sounds swell too." Besides a small 'grin', I ignore their cheers. "I had great plans for my future. With all the opportunities the Capitol was making in terms of allowing the districts to have a say in national politics, I was eager to move away from Three and live my dream. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem like that will be the case anymore."

"Why not?"

What do you mean, why not? I'm not sure if she's goading me or being willfully ignorant.

"Tributes from District 3 are a hit or a miss when it comes to the Games." I explain.

"Are you saying you're a _miss_?"

"I'm saying that it'll be very difficult to be a hit given my parameters." I counter politely. "I just wish that someone far more...deserving were in my spot."

"We have to deal with what is dealt to us." Marceline responds pointedly with a slight nod in acknowledgement. "So far, you're dealing with it fairly well. Your score for starters is good, given your ' _parameters'."_

"Thank you, I brought my best foot forward on that one." I answer. I wasn't happy about a '7'. I wished I'd gotten something in the double digits, but this wasn't a math test. It was the Hunger Games. Any score above a '6' works in my favor, so I digress.

 _"_ I'm eager to see how your score manifests." Marceline nods. "What about your alliance with Laelia? How come it ended?"

 _Laelia_. I couldn't help but think back to the first day of training when we met. She was so eager and happy to make my acquaintance as one of the younger girls this year. If we were in a different life, I'd imagine we'd be good friends.

"I believed that it would be best if I operated alone. It spares me the trouble of any conflict down the line.

"I smell a Piper Malveaux in the making...She's a runner too, which makes it all so ironic." Marceline hums. "How are your combat skills?"

"I'd say fair." I answer honestly. The private session wasn't bad, as per my score. But still, I don't see myself making any moves to kill anybody.

She motions for me to stand up and then makes a twirling motion with her finger. I oblige, giving the audience a twirl as I earn a few hoots here and there.

"You're most definitely not wiry. So I imagine that you used more than just your brain when it came to your session?"

"I did track and field back in school." I answer her, earning jittery exclaims from the crowd. "I was even given athlete of the year this year."

That gave me _some_ piece of mind, the fact that I have my name and face within the school I loved so very much – a name and face that had nothing to do with the Wall of Fallen Students.

"I could almost hear your odds go up after you said that." Marceline remarks coyly. "What did you do?"

"The usual," I reply, sitting down as I recite the events while counting them off the tips of my fingers. "There's running long jump, meter dashes, relay, shot-put... " _javelin throw._

I glance up and there I am on yet another edition of the Tribune, chomping down on one of my many gold medals. I can't help but look at it, tear up and sniffle at how _unfair_ this all is.

"What's wrong, Maia?"

I snatch up a tissue from the tea table beside the sofa. "I really do love the opportunities I've been given _I do_. I just can't deal with the fact that it may be all over now."

"It doesn't _have_ to be over Maia." Marceline soothes in a joyous tone. "We were just talking about how _capable_ you are!"

I nod. "I know, and you're right."

I hate appearing so _weak_ , not having control over the situation.

"So, if what I'm hearing about you is right, if you keep on keeping on with what your mind is telling you, I imagine that you have a decent shot at becoming that politician you've always dreamed to be."

"I agree and I _will_." I reply, as the host nods in kind.

"Good. Unfortunately, that is all the time I have for you." Marceline says warmly. She takes my hand and gently shakes it, giving me a singular nod and a wink. "Ladies and gentleman, let's have a round of applause for the female tribute for District 3 – Maia Clear!"

"Thank you Marceline," I say, offering a polite wave to the audience before leaving the stage proper.

I know I'm capable, more than capable. However my best, I'm afraid is not enough this time around.

We'll see if it's because of my own skill that I prevail, or is it just sheer luck.

 _ **Tobias Ledger, 63**_  
 _ **District Three Male**_

"Here's hoping she wins, eh? Maybe she'll be the one to _finally install_ the Line 20 subway..." Marceline mutters, chuckling along with the audience. "Next up, we have Mr. Tobias Ledger...Or so he _says_ he is. His photo you may remember on Reaping Day was one of a white guy. Come on out, Tobias!"

I wait thirty seconds after she announces my name and the applause dies down, only to poke my head out and then retreat back behind stage. I do the same with my hands and legs jutting them out before retracting them back just as quickly.

"Uh...Tobias, is everything okay?" Marceline asks, turning toward the audience. "Maybe he has stage fright, I don't know..."

My hands pawed in front of me, I scurry onto the stage while swiftly darting my head to the left and right. I immediately hide behind the sofa, only to pop back out again. I make a show of rifling through the cushions and other fixtures before wearily making my way toward the host who looks less than amused to the trained eye, but that smile of hers masks her annoyance pretty well.

"Hello Tobias, how are you this evening?" She asks, her eyes following me as I zip about the stage. "You're looking dapper as usual, if your reaping outfit says anything about you. You remind me of Barley Philips – the blues singer? You two are the same age as well."

It's funny how _awkward_ she looks, having a full-fledged conversation with me as I snoop through her stuff meters away. It shows in the way she darts from the audience to me.

I tip my hat toward her. A sparkling blue, pinstriped double breasted suit, lilac tie and pocket square with shiny black and white oxfords...A person has to find _something_ that makes them happy in this mundane nation of ours. As for me, _clothes_ are just one of those things.

"Thank you. Well...that depends!" I answer her, flipping her palm upward instead of pumping it. "Hmm...No nightlock-laced fingertips."

" _Why_ would I lace my fingertips with nightlock?"

I don't answer her, as I stride out all the way to the edge of the stage and scan the audience with cupped hands. I spot Gwen and Doris upfront, the looks on their face _priceless_ – as this was most definitely _not_ what they tried to drill into me yesterday and the hours leading up to tonight.

 _Sorry ladies,_ Tobias is a man who loves his improv.

"Well Marceline, there are no hidden bombs, poison on your fingers to kill me with or snipers to blow my head off." I say, finally grasping her hand and pumping it so that she teeters forward. "So I'd say I'm doing as fine as a guy heading into a Hunger Games _can be_. Come, let's take a seat and have a chat!"

The crowd doubles over in laughter as our gracious host bites her lip and offers a strained nod.

"Why in the heck would I have any of those?" she deadpans, slipping into her leather chair.

"Well, I heard you guys hated rebels so I wanted to be safe...By proxy, of course." I grin, earning more laughter from the audience. I've watched the previous interviews intensively, watching her get ahead of the others with a little verbal karate. That little display unnerved her – _good_. Why let her set the tone as to what is negative or positive?

After that, no one will see me as a scary rebel, but a sixty-three year old man just wanting to have a little fun.

"So you're saying you're a _rebel_ , Mr. Ledger?" asks Marceline with a raised brow. "My sources say your brother was a key figure in Three's cell, so it wouldn't be too much of a stretch."

"Nah, _though_ I like think of myself as the type of man who happily answers when opportunity knocks." I answer with an earnest nod. "It's how I made ends meet during those trying times."

Tried as they might, the government spooks couldn't get the drop on me, but I paid for Thaddeus' errs _regardless_ even though it was a slap on the wrist at best. When shit started to hit the fan I did what most gray people do, _fade into the background_. Thank _goodness for_ pseudonyms, alibis and a level head.

"What opportunities were those?"

Like when I hoodwinked Maia's school presentation, that _thrill_ comes back in _force_. "Oh you know...the distributing business."

The correct word is _trafficking_ , but that doesn't really help my case now does it?

Marceline crosses one leg over the other. "Distributing what exactly?"

"Essentials, to the stores and shelters still open..." Essentials like food, important messages and other materiel. If I was feeling _frisky_ , some weapons may go here or there.

"...And to rebels on the side." Marceline finishes. It wasn't a question, but a statement.

" _No_ , though you couldn't really tell during those times." I answer with a shrug. "Thankfully even if those supplies fell into rebel hands it didn't amount to anything, right?"

Light clapping comes from the audience as Marceline swipes through her datapad without a care. I for one enjoyed that dance, it's a pity she didn't.

"So what did you do before arriving on my stage?" she asks, glancing up at me. "My sources searched high and low for a footprint, but you seem like a guy who likes to _lay low._ "

"That's true. I do odd jobs here and there, enough to keep me going just a little while longer." I reply, reclining back into the sofa. "I label myself as a _fix-it_ man these days."

She cocks a brow. "What was that reaping photo all about?"

I shrug, bursting into laughter as it appears once more on the screen above us. The audience finds it funny too. "...Must've been a mistake, as there was a man with my namesake living in Three sometime ago. The clerk must've been tired when he was going over my file or something, I dunno."

 _Dead men tell no tales_ , serving as the perfect face for one's schemes.

"And here we are now." Marceline hums tiredly. "I think you know what I'll ask you about next?"

"Yes, and I don't think I'll engage the question." I answer pointedly. It's been beaten to death and I doubt folks in higher places think of me as a threat. "Though I have to say _I do_ enjoy the idea of being in the center of an inter-district tryst."

I smirk as the audience again breaks out into laughter, but Marceline keeps silent with a small 'grin'. The girls were right about our hosts' eyes. I'm almost unnerved by how piercing they are... _I said almost._

She leans on her desk, hands cupped before her. "So the alliance in your opinion is solid?"

"I'd like to think so." I answer, nodding. "Like the girl said, we're just like-minded people interested in surviving just a little bit longer."

"And what about _you_ personally, what's _your_ overall strategy as the eldest male?"

"You don't have to _rub it in,_ Marceline." I jest. "You got that right, I'm _old._ But a guy like me doesn't get old without _one thing_."

From Marceline's cupped hands, a thumb flicks upward as she cocks her head to the side. "And what is _that_ , pray tell?"

"A level head on their shoulders." I answer, giving the old noggin a tap. "Since striking out on my own at sixteen years old, I've spent many years sharpening it. I'm sure it has _some_ juice left in it to make some difference. We'll have to see."

It was a sappy answer at best, but Capitols seem to _love_ sappy, as many of them break out into applause and light cheering. I find myself grinning sadly, as this may very well be my last rodeo. You can bet your bottom dollar I'll be giving death a run for his money the best I can.

 _ **Sarissa Levesque ,26  
District 2 Female**_

"Thank you Tobias for your interview. He's a class act, that Tobias." Prattles Marceline. "Alright here we are at _District 2! There's absolutely no bias here I sincerely promise and swear!"_ joyous laughter and applause erupts from the crowd. "I've been keeping an eye on the betting boards and you guys have been _killing_ it with District 2...Bookies across the nation don't know how to keep up! Some of you will either be _very very_ rich or _very very_ sorry. With that being said, let's meet the female representing District 2 this year. Please welcome the odds on favourite to win this thing – a Ms. Sarissa Levesque!"

I don't keep them waiting.

I burst onto the stage with a smile brighter than the lights that shine down upon me. You'd think I was a One female by the way I'm sashaying around the edge of the stage, I take my time to wave to the audience, relishing in their roars of applause and chants of my name.

I've _spent years upon years_ waiting for this moment. I was going to relish in _every second of it._

"Hello Sarissa." Marceline croons as she steps toward me.

"Good evening, Marceline." I purr in reply as she takes my hand and gently pumps it. "It's nice to _finally_ be on your stage."

"The pleasures _all mine_ , m'dear." She replies, holding my hand as she gives my pastel grey shift dress a look over. "The stylists have absolutely _outdone_ themselves this year. I can't wait to see these pieces on the street!"

Spending the majority of my life within Panem's military system has rendered me indifferent to civilian clothing, which is why I insisted I be dressed in the most basic selection they had. I still had a reputation to uphold back at Overwhill with my students. I didn't want them seeing me dolled up _too_ much.

"Come, come," Marceline ushers me to the sofa while taking her place behind her desk. "I know I say this to everyone, but we _really_ have a lot to talk about."

"I could imagine..." I hum playfully. The HV prattles on about me _all the time. Who is Sarissa Levesque, is she married? What does she do?_ So on and so forth. _I really am_ living my dream even if it hasn't been _wholly realized_ yet.

"As you know this is an _adult_ Games. We have doctors, authors, miners and so on. You are an honest-to-goodness Peacekeeper – a ground pounder – not a sailor or an airman, but a _soldier_." Marceline says firmly with a pumped fist and a smug grin.

"That I am." I smile in reply. The audience seems to love that little – big – fact, as many if not all of them rise to their feet and cheer.

"As you know we love our Peacekeepers no matter what branch they may serve in." Marceline gushes with a wink. "It wasn't said with Ms. Novakova, but your sacrifices are duly noted here in the Capitol and beyond. _So_ , what is it that you do in the Corps?"

"Thank you all for your support." I smile. "I'm a training officer – a lieutenant – at Barron Overwhill Academy."

"So you train up the kids to become full-fledged Peacekeepers?" Marceline hums in acknowledgement as I nod in the affirmative. More cheers from the audience. "And I understand that you aren't a 'full-time' Peacekeeper?"

"Though with how things are, I mise well be. " I grin to light laughs. "I'm a part of the Loyalist Militia of Panem."

"For those of you who don't know, that is the part-time component of the Peacekeeper Corps." Marceline says as she turns back to me. "I'll have you know my _niece_ is a militiaman too."

"Oh, which unit?"

"The 5th Battalion I think...The 1st Static Infantry Division?" Marceline replies with a furrowed brow.

I nod. Images of a hundred millimetre guns stuffed into mountainsides flood my memory. "So she likes the _big guns_?"

Marceline lets out an airy scoff and nods. "The Devereaux house is a weird house..."

"Ah." I nod, joining the audience with some light chuckling.

"What got you into joining the men and women in white?"

"Well...My father was a Peacekeeper? So naturally I wanted to become one as well."

"Was he a veteran?" Marceline asks, immediately bonking her head. "Well, _durr_ , of course he was!"

"Yep, he served right alongside Rommie Thread in the 8th Division during the War." I reply proudly, grinning as the audience roars with applause.

Marceline's eyes were wide like saucers. "And he was a _Crazy Eight_... _My my_ , now I see where you get your penchant for adventure!"

Yep. Dad and the Eights were everywhere leading up to and during the War. Like the suppression of the riots in 11 during HG 74, the rebellion in District 8, the retreat to 2 and the "Pursuit to 13". I could spend _eons_ in the Legion posts listening to vets of the Eights speak about their experiences. They are the stuff of legends...However...

"Yeah, however he's a little bit humbled now. He and my mother find issue with my volunteering." I say.

Marceline shrugs. "I can't blame him. If he was under Romulus Thread, he must've been in the thick of things."

I nod. Mom would tell me his stories of watching friends and relatives being blown away by shellfire or suicide bombers. I never saw his stories of war as ones of hardship only, but _triumph_. He should be proud above all else for saving Panem from the brink of uncertainty by pushing 13 from the Capitol's doorstep all the way back to _theirs_.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to the gung-ho man I see in pictures around the house.

"So, why _did_ you volunteer?" Marceline asks. "...Besides the _obvious_."

"Well, first and foremost the obvious reasons _are_ the main reasons why." I reply, earning laughter. "Ever since I was little, I've wanted to take the plunge."

"They say that you were a star student in your cadet days?"

"And they aren't wrong. I spent years anticipating to volunteer."

"You were ready to go until you got injured, correct?"

"Correct." I nod. I was running a gauntlet when one wrong jump put me out of commission for that year. If I were to unload that disappointment and sadness onto someone else, they'd off themselves within a week.

"And then Diana, your friend, volunteered in your place..."

"Yes." I swallow, stifling any emotional outburst. "Unfortunately, she didn't make it."

The crowd coos with sadness as the screen above showcases scenes of Diana during her time here. Her Games are the _only_ Games I refuse to watch.

With a foreboding face, Marceline points to me. "Will _you_ make it?"

I snort. "Don't mess with someone who has a one-track mind, Marceline."

"That's exceptionally true in a District 2 tributes case!" Marceline cackles along with the audience. "Especially one such as _you!"_

I nod, crossing one leg over the other. Of course it was true. I didn't come so far just to lose.

"They say that you and your team have significant opposition this year. What are your thoughts?"

"Opposition is meant to be crushed."

Marceline's face brightens as if I'd turned her on. The fanning of her face adds to the effect. "My my...What about Vera, she must have something up her sleeve with that '12' of hers..."

I scoff, rolling my eyes. Zenobia had told me of HG 74 and 75, one of the only Games buffed off the history books. They pulled the exact same shit.

"I think you and everyone else knows what that '12' means to someone like her." I snip, making sure to level my voice so that I wasn't perceived as 'jealous', but dismissive. "It'd be a shame if all that potential was snuffed out so early..."

This riles them up, prompting cheers and goading "Ooooooohs" to ring throughout the audience.

"Do you have any plans for tomorrow and the days following?"

"My plans are simple Marceline. Team up with the other Careers and _trounce_ everyone else."

The roars of approval are a little _too_ much. Marceline motions for me to stand and I do, meeting her half way as she pumps my hand.

"With that training score of yours, I don't have _any doubt in the worl_ d that you mean what you say." She purrs with a wink. She then pumps my hand with hers into the air. "Ladies and gentleman, let's hear it for Sarissa Levesque!"

While they rise to their feet and cheer my name, I simply scan the entirety of the arena, smirking. My genuine time to shine was almost here and _I can't wait._

 ** _Solomon Kohli, 20  
District 2 Male _**

"Now, we move over to the male half of the pair. Unlike previous District 2 males before him, his impact thus far has been mute, though that isn't stopping many of you from backing him. He seems the sort to keep his cards close, and then read em' and weep when you least expect it. Let's see if we can read that poker face of his, please join me in welcoming Solomon Kohli to the stage!"

 _A Puzzling tribute is always attractive. Play it up! Like you haven't been already..._

With Olivia's words front and center in my mind. I enter onto the stage with minimal reaction to the audience's cheers besides a curt wave and a polite smile. With that smile, I extend a hand to Marceline, who gingerly accepts it.

"Hey hey, Solomon," Marceline greets, pumping my hand. Her eyes roam the entirety of my navy blue suit, accessorized by a black shirt, navy and gold tie and gold pocket square. "You look tall, lean and handsome this evening. _Oh_ and those oxfords, they shine like _mirrors_!"

I reply with a simple smile, nodding as she gestures to the open sofa. We both take our seats in our respected spots.

"They tried to stuff me in something bright, but I prefer a darker palette." I say.

"I agree. It fits your complexion." Marceline chortles as she grins. "Now...As you might've just heard, people are curious about you, Solomon..."

" _Please_ , call me _Sol_." I interject lightly with a soft smirk.

Marceline's face lights up with surprise as she turns to the crowd.

"Hey, we're learning!" she exclaims, shooting her hands into the air as the audience bursts with laughter. " _Sol_. To bring people up to speed, let's hear it from you, how is life in District 2 for a young adult such as yourself?"

" _Not_ being a teenager _sucks_ , that's for sure." I reply, smirking as the audience continues to chuckle.

"Why is that?"

"A lot of us seem to lack purpose when we miss the chance to volunteer." I explain listlessly, shrugging.

It was true...Because the Games were focused on teenagers, being a cadet in the Academy was _everything_. I remember how proud I felt to wear the Academy uniform, the idolization of the victors and the constant work towards being in the best shape possible. I also remember the anger and regret of being passed over like it was yesterday...It basically _was yesterday._

"Do _you_ feel like you're lacking purpose? Or _did_ you feel?"

I shake my head, hoping it was convincing enough. "Not exactly, more so my purpose would be _better served_ if I had volunteered then."

Basically – _yes_. But why would I admit that out loud?

"That's fair. Twos take duty and honor _very_ seriously..." Marceline agrees, nodding. "Why didn't you carry on with Peacekeeping? That's _especially_ honorable given the past couple of years."

"I do serve as a militiaman – a corporal..." I answer her, earning applause and cheers from the audience. Unlike Sarissa and a grand majority of other people who serve in it, I do the bare minimum. I attend drill nights every now and then and the occasional training exercises, but not much else. If there's one thing I hated about the Academy or even District 2 in general was how dogmatic the people are there. I'm not the type of guy who likes playing the role of peon while some power-hungry washout from the Academy chews you out to make themselves feel better.

Though I am, I don't consider myself a Peacekeeper. If anything, it was a hobby, one more source of income to help Mom and Dad out.

"But the Games were your number one in your heart and you didn't get over that until now?"

I nod, balling my hands in an attempt to generate some warmth. "Basically."

"I see. Besides the Academy and the Militia, what else do you do?"

"I do odds and ends around the neighborhood." I answer curtly as the audience giggles. She stares with joke-incredulousness as I smile slightly.

"...Drug dealing?" she jokes with a rueful smile.

"Perhaps..." I reply, returning the smile and giving a halfhearted shrug. The audience rumbles with giggles once more.

"Oh _come on_ Sol, give us something else!" she yearns.

"Well, _I do_ like to engage in adventurous activity that may carry weight in a Hunger Games scenario..."

"Okay...Interesting, do go on..."

"Things like rock climbing, archery, helping out at the local library...Though that's not 'adventurous' by any means, I'm partial to Hunger Games encyclopedias. I find them to be _very_ interesting."

"There we go..."

"And also...I do engage in the writer's craft from time to time."

"What do you write about?"

"Mostly journaling." I respond. I smirk as Marceline rolls her hand, yearning for me to continue. "You know...Journaling about hopes, fears and wonders of the world around me."

"Mhm...My people have spoken to plenty of passersby pertaining to you and I have to say that this could serve as a grand opportunity for you...If you're eager enough to go all the way."

"I volunteered, didn't I?"

"Volunteering is only part of the battle!" Marceline counters with a pointed finger. "What do your parents think about all this?"

"They were pretty thrilled, threw a party for me and everything." I jest. When the laughter from the crowds die down, I shake my head. "They're... _reluctant_ , but accepting. They didn't go to school within the Academy system. There's my sister too..."

"We spoke to her the other day...She's quite the card, so I hear." Smirks Marceline. "I bet you guys are always at each other's throats."

I nod, thinking back to all the various pranks and verbal jousts we'd have. " _Sometimes_."

"Since you're pegged as a fly on the wall-type tribute this year, what do you think of all the recent rumblings?" Marceline asks. "What are your thoughts on the other alliances for example?"

"Rumbles almost always go away and they will too." I remark with folded arms and a crossed leg. "I'm not concerned about any alliances at the moment. Especially ones that consist of majority old people and one filled with the type of people who sits around while their house is on fire and believe that everything is fine."

That really takes the cake, as the crowd howls like there's no tomorrow.

Marceline tries to stifle her snickers. "What do you think of _your_ alliance's chance of success?"

"I'm sure we'll do okay. Not that I'm wholly wishing for _their_ success." I say. "I do have _me_ to worry about, after all."

"Do you have a bag packed for an _early skedaddle?_ "

"I wouldn't put it that way." I answer with the shake of the head. "When you're in an alliance, you should always look towards the moment you're the only one left. But until then, you make it work until it simply doesn't."

I thought this year would be worse in terms of there being a lack of run-of-the-mill 'Careers'. Despite all the things being said about us, the alliance isn't all that bad. While Sarissa runs a tight ship, I just keep my mouth closed and nod along because it benefits me in the end. No one will have qualms with neutral Sol. I do smell an early dismissal, however, and I will be the first out the door when it happens.

"What would you say is your overall strategy?"

"Oh you know...the usual stuff." I reply, holding a hand out as I begin counting some of them off. "Hang out with the Careers for a while...roam around...turn a tribute or two into a pin cushion?"

"Typical Career stuff it seems." Marceline hums as the audience comes down from another laughing session. "Well, after studying you from across the poker table, it seems that volunteering _may_ be what you needed all along. As I finish with you here tonight, I think that _many_ people are rooting for you to fulfill that purpose you think needs filling."

"Thank you Marceline." I nod, reaching over and pumping her hand for the last time. "I think you all will be _pleasantly surprised_ by my performance."

 _ **Aurelia Baudelaire, 31**  
 **District One Female**_

"Eleven districts – plus Snow Island – have winded us down to _one_ – _District One!_ Of course, there's a plethora of D1 fans in the building. Just like how there seems to be a plethora of doctors this time around, this year has brought us some _very heavy_ hitters in the business world in the form of two executives of _rather sizeable_ retail chains. It'll be interesting to see how this plays out. The first – our female – is _CEO_ of _Baudelaire's_ , _Aurelia_ Baudelaire!"

As much as I wanted to scream, pivot on my heels and run away from this arena, the Capitol and Panem itself, I plaster on the face of a dignified woman and enter onto the stage with measured steps. The audience naturally rises to their feet and cheers my name in earnest. If it were any other occasion, I'd happily engage with them. But this _most definitely_ wasn't that occasion. And I most definitely don't need their support.

 _Well, maybe not their financial support, but their emotional support would go a long way._

I opt for a modest smile and a single wave toward the audience before marceline steps toward me with a hand stretched. Part of me wanted to upturn my nose and refuse her. She may not have any explicitly to do with my tragedy, but she was the _face_ that represented them. She could make me or break me – most likely she would try to break me – but she wouldn't twist the knife if I at least cooperated with her.

"What a number that is, Aurelia." Marceline comments with awe in her tone. "You look like you came from the late HG Seventies and I'm not complaining."

A frequent memory from my early years was this dress – a form fitting, ruby dress that reached the ankles with a slit up to the thigh and a mink stole to keep you warm. Mother looked like a movie star – a real Venus Verstappen as she would bend down and kiss me goodnight before heading off with Father to another nightly gala. She was snapped with it many times that it was almost signature. A perfect way to honor her, I find.

"It was my _mother's_ dress." I reply in a strained tone. Realizing this, I smile sadly in an attempt to save face. _Remember Aurelia – your attitude._

"Ah yes, Morena Baudelaire..." Marceline nods off in thought. "And your father, Justus Baudelaire, I apologize for your losses."

I swallow. Was she _really?_ I honestly don't know if this woman is genuine _ever._ Even though she kept her mouth shut during the elections, I know for a _fact_ that she would be the type of person to hobnob with Serena Westenfluss and Viondra DeWynter. Her livelihood depended on what they stand for.

"Thank you." I say, my voice strained. "As you could imagine after one loses both parents, it serves as an immense shock."

"Who will mind the shop while you're away?"

"We have an executive board of course, but I'm currently ratifying some amendments that will ensure my parents' legacy lives on." I answer to light applause. I couldn't help but feel _agitated_.

That fact, in the event that I'm no longer here and thus have no more control, frightens me. Who knows what the board will do in my absence? Sure, many of them were my parents' trusted partners, but the business world is a razor sharp one.

"This is all happening so suddenly for you. There must be so many thoughts bouncing around your mind."

"That's how I'd go about it. Gives me little time to think, which makes me an _easy target._

"I'm sorry?" Marceline sputters. "Go about _what_ exactly?"

"Getting rid of me." I answer pointedly. "With all that's going on outside of the Games, they think that I'll be an easy target which I _promise_ you I _won't_ be, not if I can help it."

"Are you saying that your being here was _staged_?"

From my stole, I unveil the silver bullet and the brazen note given to me some months after my parents' 'accident'. The audience's gasps are audible. I read it aloud for all to hear, wondering if they cut out anything. How could they?

"We've received plenty more right up until they passed. If this doesn't scream 'blatant', I don't know what does, Marceline..." I sniff, my voice threatening to bubble over but I remain composed. "I think that there needs to be some serious reforms when it comes to the selection process and who oversees said process."

"I understand..." Marceline begins, but I raise a finger to interject.

"We have given our all to better District 1 and Panem at large." I barrel through her attempt to 'calm' me. I'm not raising my voice like Mr. Marcenas, I am speaking plainly for everyone to hear. I'm not being 'rebellious' anyone with common sense would agree that other people would be better served in my spot.

"Those elections were awfully nasty, I agree. Everyone here remembers that on top of the national elections, we had district gubernatorial elections as well?" Marceline asks aloud as the crowd murmurs in response. "One's election was very close and bitter. I do not condone any of the hairiness that went on, but many of your parents' opposition say that Mr. Baudelaire would ruin One's standing within the Games."

"Why do the Games take center place over everything else?" I ask incredulously. "I won't apologize for my father standing up for those within One who live on the other end of the wealth gap, among other issues that don't involve people like me – who have immense privilege."

Over the mutters of the audience, Marceline's grin falters as she eases upward in her chair.

"Who was your mentor this year?" Marceline continues on, her voice warbled with caution. "We hear that there's a lot of conflict within the One camp this time around..."

"My 'mentor' is none other than my Father's opponent – Serene Westenfluss – however she isn't much of a help. Neither are any of One's other victors unfortunately which doesn't help their case." I say, not bothering to even gaze down at any of them.

"You haven't received _any_ help?" Marceline asks with her face scrounged in confusion.

"Well, our escort Rouge was very lovely ever since I stepped foot within the city. She has gone above and beyond to try and make me comfortable and interview ready and I thank her for that."

A shy grin spreads across the dark skinned young woman's lips as the crowd applauds her.

"I'm sure it's just the election being the way that it was, the relationship is a little sullied...But that didn't stop you so much now did it?" Marceline says with a hint of optimism. "You got a '6' I recall...care to tell us how it came to be?"

"I had some self-defense training."I reply. "You know, just in case someone decided to break into my manor and slit my throat while I _sleep_."

The audience – with Marceline in tote – laughs in a low, nervous rumble.

"An empowered woman is a dangerous one, or so I think..." the host shrugs, her face immediately brightening up. "At least you have that going for you. How about _alliances_ , are you in any alliances?"

"Well, the Careers weren't having me due to my lack of skill...Not that I'd be keen on joining such an alliance in the first place."

"What about Mr. Montgolia?" Marceline inquires. "Surely you guys know each other from home?"

One's elite world is a small one. His father and mine knew each other through joint ventures, so our relationship was cordial as well. He had been kind to me enough over the past couple of days and I'm thankful for that.

I nod. "Yes, in passing. I wish him all the best, as I imagine he has himself to worry about, as do I."

"Who did you decide to go with?"

I decided to shack up with Nautia. I am very thankful to have gotten to know such a beautiful, dedicated individual. I suppose you can say she was my mentor during the past couple of days."

"That's quite the ally you have in Nautia." Marceline says over the light applause. "With that being said, what's your game plan?"

"I shall play the game with the highest effort I can muster, applying what I've learned copious amounts of Games footage over the years and here in the Capitol." I answer. "I am a _mother_ you know, to a five year old son that I would like to see again _very soon_. I'd also like to be there to maintain my parents' work."

Marceline nods over the applause of the audience. "You have a lot at stake..."

"Yes Marceline I do and I don't plan on going down, if at all, without a fight."

 _ **Thames Montgolia, 25**_  
 _ **District One Male**_

"Thank you Aurelia for your powerful interview, I'm sure you have plenty of fans both here and nationwide." Marceline gulps in a big breath and exhales. "We made it. All twenty-six tributes are almost accounted for! Except one tribute, that is. Without this tributes family, how would we stay so bejeweled and bedazzled all year 'round? If you shop at their location here in the Capitol, You may have seen him personally in many their catalogues smack-dab on the front cover."

The screen cuts to a teenage me, surrounded by friends, as we showed off the 'Spring '54' line of Montgolia's luxury clothing line.

"What a dreamboat he is. And you may also know him as the good-looking assistant to the Head Peacekeeper – Lieutenant Stevens in this episode of _Dragnet!"_

I smile. That was one of my more fruitful ventures within the past year or so. Two full episodes of the stardom I craved so much. Everyone loves Dragnet – the story of a hardboiled Peacekeeper Capitan Styx McKay jet-setting across the nation to solve various crimes.

"Please join me in welcoming our last tribute of the night, Thames Montgolia!"

I barely even entered the stage proper before the screams of women flood the air. I make a show of playfully bowing towards the audience, joining in on their applause while striding over to the edge where Marceline waits idly by with a warm grin.

"Thank you all very much for the warm welcome, I'm humbled." I say aloud, shaking Marceline's outstretched hand before pulling her into a friendly hug. "Hello Marceline, are your ears ringing?"

"Hello Thames," Marceline trills with a bounce on her heels. "And no, I think after a couple of years you kinda just lose the sense little by little..."

"That makes perfect sense." I beam, smiling from ear to ear as the audience gobbles it up.

"How are you feeling tonight?" she asks.

"I'm feeling swell, eager to finally get started." I reply happily. I gesture to the crowd. "The people have made this experience oh so great so far...Also I have to say that I enjoyed your dance routine this evening. I never knew a woman like you could move like that."

As the crowd bursts into cheers and applause, Marceline's face lights up with surprise as locks her hands behind her while she kicks her foot against the ground bashfully.

"Yep...I'm no spring chicken, but I still got it." She says playfully with a bashful waggle of the finger. "Let's take a look at you here, I'm a _Libra_ , so fashion is my thing, you may have noticed?"

I briefly splay my hands outward as a welcoming gesture. "Please, go ahead."

She makes her rounds around the maroon-colored suit I'm dressed in, tugging at the matching bowtie, peering down at the shiny gold buck of my belt shiny oxfords with gold clasps and then shooting back up to feel my hair that was gelled like there was no tomorrow.

"Mhm...I like it, I like it..." she purrs, her blue eyes meeting mine. "It's almost like you're a victor bathed in blood and riches..."

I cock my head sideways, imitating her grin. "That seems like a fair observation."

"And this ring...It's an academy ring but look at all the alterations." Marceline coos.

She and the audience let out exclamations as the ring projects images of family and friends.

"To remind me of home and the good times I had while I was there."

"Does he look ravishing?!" Marceline chuckles as the audience responds in kind. With a smirk on her lips, she gestures to the seats.

"So, Thames, you're a rather young man who attended Edenthew Academy. There are a _lot_ of victor alumni from there...Why didn't you decide to volunteer earlier?"

"Well Marceline, Edenthew wasn't solely about Hunger Games related teachings." I begin. "There were preparatory classes in civ

ics, visual arts, dramatic arts – which I was _very partial_ to."

" _Of course_ drama was your favourite subject...I wouldn't have known."

The audience rumbles with soft giggles as I join in, smiling at her light quip.

"I was a member of oh so many clubs. The glee club, the arts council, the student council..." I continue. "Some of you know about the Phi Gamma Epsilon club? Numerous male victors were a part of it..."

"You mean those knuckleheads who constant pull pranks on Reaping Day?" Marceline asks with a smirk and shake of the head.

I let out a chuckle, images of dummies being hung from nooses and students breaking out into song and sometimes play fights flooding back into my mind. "The very same."

"Yeah, you guys scared me with that pregnancy announcement stuff..." chuckles Marceline. "Those kids, were they students of yours?"

"Yes. I also teach part time within the dramatic arts department. They're good kids. I enjoyed teaching them, as they make the experience worthwhile."

"So you have your hands in a lot of jars then?" Marceline concludes. "You teach at the Academy from time to time, you have a stake within the family company and you do acting and modeling from time to time."

"Yes. I made peace with not pursuing the Games and instead following after the arts." I say. Because why not, I was doing so well...There was never a year in which I got lower than a '95' in any dramatic or visual art. And with all the scholarships and awards being given to me, I had good reason to follow through.

" _Unfortunately_ ," Marceline begins in a lamenting tone. "It seems that there are a whole lot of Thames' who get off the train to the Capitol each year looking for the _same thing_..."

"I suppose so..." I nod. I tried so hard to hang onto the dream, but unfortunately, I wasn't seeing the reality of the situation.

Marceline nods slowly. "So you decided to volunteer because..?"

"Because I remember the Games side of my younger years and how good I was at that too." I explain. "When this Quell came along, I thought it could serve as my ' _greatest production'_ so to speak. What better way to gain fame and recognition by winning a Quell such as this?"

"Do you think that's enough of a reason?" Marceline asks.

I'm slightly taken aback. "I'm sorry?"

"Do you think that's enough of a reason?" she repeats. "You pretty much have it all...And with some of the other tributes running around, some would argue that they have more at stake than you do..."

"Did the grand majority of Careers who volunteered and won or fell have a good enough reason?" I counter.

"I suppose that's fair. But they were teenagers – children. Adults are far more established as we've seen tonight."

"We're _all different_ , Marceline." I reply tiredly, a soft grin on my lips. "Where one may find their motivations sound, another person thinks their motivations are asinine and theirs better."

"Okay." Marceline relents. "Regardless of reasoning, your score will more than _compensate_. Your motivation to volunteer could be to just hack away as many tributes as you can, and you'll probably succeed."

I hum in agreement. I've been out of the loop for a little bit, but I remember most of the tips and tricks taught to me as a pupil at Edenthew.

"How do you think you'll fare in the Games once they begin?" Marceline asks. "As you might've heard in my most recent conversations, people are questioning the pack's integrity."

"I don't blame them. Many of them have bet a lot of money and are looking to keep their investments..." I smile at the crowd as a burst of laughter erupts from them. "The pack is doing great."

"What about the lack of members?"

"In a Quell like this, do you really expect adults to be as gung-ho as they were when they were younger?"

"Potential ego battles between members?"

"Between the four of us?" I reply incredulously. Warren was a swell guy, Sol was...Sol and Sarissa is a solider by trade. So of course she'll get bent out of shape if she doesn't have something in a particular way. It was very annoying at how controlling she could be, but it was manageable because I _needed it to be_. "I think people are just scared because this isn't a typical year with a eight-man pack. You have nothing to worry about."

"Alright Thames, we'll take it from you!" Marceline says with a half-sigh-half-laugh. "You heard it from Thames...Career lovers have nothing to worry about!"

"Don't worry. No one will be breaking down your doors yelling for you to pay up..." I add, much to the humor and enjoyment of some in the audience.

"So what say you, Thames?" Marceline asks finally, her tone serious yet her face lighthearted. "What are your worries or strategies going into the Games?"

"I'm an actor Marceline. I am to go in and play my role and play it well. I would like something of my own besides Montgolia's and this is the only way to do it, it seems. I would be humbled if I got some support from you all here tonight in my endeavor to do so."

We both rise out of our seats and meet each other halfway. A pleasant grin on her lips, we simultaneously reach forward and pump each other's hand.

"A lot of women – I mean girls – I mean people are rooting for you to make it big." She replies, grinning like a pesky child as the audience rumbles with laughter.

"I'll be _forever thankful_ when I do." I say with a smile.

I _have_ to.

"Ladies and gentlemen – Thames Montgolia!" Marceline exclaims, gesturing to me with one hand and another arm raising mine triumphantly into the air.

* * *

" _Eh, EH?!_ HOW WAS THAT, HUH?!"

Marceline lets out a cackle as the audience responds just the way she expected them to. She couldn't blame them. In just a few hours, history was about to be made.

"Ladies and gentleman, it has been a _real gas_ , truly. Tributes, yes it's been said _every_ year, but you are truly exceptional, this year more than _all!_ You each have something at stake which will make for a Games that will be on _everyone's_ lips from now till the end of time! One more time for posterity sake, let's get a look-see at this year's most exceptional roster!"

Marceline zips out of the way as the furnishings that once took up the stage were now sinking into the ground. Replacing them with two elevated platforms, on them were the tributes of the One Hundredth Hunger Games and the Fourth Quarter Quell. If they had any fear or nervousness it didn't show as each tribute sported a smile or a grin while the cameras slowly cut to all twenty-six, or twenty- _five_ , as the national anthem booming all the while in mix with the cheers of the audience.

"Aurelia Baudelaire, Thames Montgolia, Sarissa Levesque, Solmon "Sol" Kohli, Maia Clear, Tobias Ledger, Nautia Novakova, Warren Holt, Tuesday Suetos, Geronimo "Gio" Busan, Zahira Kazimirova, Theilan Caldron, Verona Kinsley, Chris Samera, Alana Oskoii, Russett Gilmour, Hermia Rhodes, Lars Malatic, Laelia Alvarado, Emmanuel Cade, Wondr'a Okafor, Linden Norton, Veradisia Smith, Donna "Ludra" Cordillera! Tributes salute your sacrifice and courage and wish you a very happy Hunger Games. May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

Marceline's eyes scanned each and _every one_ of them. Each had a story to tell, each had motivations – some stronger than others – but stars above they had them! She wondered who among them would triumph.

She had an on-again-off-again streak when it came to guesses such as that. This year, she was certain _and_ uncertain, which made it _all the more fu_ n in her eyes.


	31. Night Before The Games - Part One

_**A/N:** Forgive the lopsidedness of some points of view both here and within the other portion, which was halved due to the immense length. Part two is imminent._

* * *

 ** _Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games  
_** ** _The Night Before the Games  
Part One_**

* * *

 _ **Gwendolyn Faraday, 23,**_  
 _ **Victor of the Ninety-Second Hunger Games**_

* * *

"You two did _amazin'_ out there!" Doris gushes. "And despite Mista L's freelancin', you two are sittin' pretty right now!"

Tobias lets out hearty chuckle. As much as I wanted to be upset with Mr. Ledger, I couldn't help but grin along with his laughter. He was fairly popular, despite his rather 'shady' past. When he and Marceline had that squabble over his 'occupation' during the war, I thought it would be curtains for him. But where his allies were quickly caught up in Marceline's web, he emerged from the interview as clean as a whistle.

"I'm sorry if I gave you two a fright." The older man explains while fiddling with his fedora. "I just prefer spontaneous happenings over rehearsed ones."

Doris bats a hand toward him. "Don't'cha worry Mista L, it was all worth it in the end! You shudda seen the look on Marceline's mug, she didn't know how t'handle it!"

"I guess she hadn't met her match..." Tobias shrugged, a rueful smirk appearing on his lips. "Until she met _me_ of course."

I continue to grin, albeit nervously. He might be _'clean'_ , but his allies aren't as much. Then again, many of the tributes voiced small concerns about the Quell. I was surprised that people were able to get away with the things they said. The Six man and the nation being in limbo, the One woman and the calling out of her district's upper class. And we can't forget the Eight man and his egregious reaping. You can't exactly punish all of them. Maybe not overtly...but _covertly. Or, maybe not even at all unless they want Panem to burn to the ground._ People are upset, and _rightfully_ so. Punishing their tributes would only exacerbate the problem.

I turn my attention to Maia, who sits on the opposite end of the limousine. The city lights illuminate the sad grin on her face as she leans her head against the glass and watches the rain dribble down.

"Hi M-M-Maia..." I greet, scooting over to her side. "You did g-g-great out t-there."

It's an empty complement, reminding me of the constant emotional coaxing my escort would give to me when I was run through the ringer at the tender age of thirteen.

 _"Good job Gwendolyn, you did smashingly out there!"_

 _"A four, that's okay – I know you will do far better when you actually get out there!"_

She doesn't take offense to the comment, but instead, her face seems to brighten a tad as she eases upward. "I believe I did too." She replies softly, her features returning back to their sadden state. "How did you sleep on your final night?"

"I didn't." I reply simply. I spent all night contemplating everything from the launch, my future goals that seemed to be in jeopardy to how I was going potentially die. Like my previous charges – probably even more so the unjustness of this Quell – I could only imagine what she's contemplating in her head. "Why, would you like medicine?"

She wobbles her head back and forth. "I'm contemplating it. Knock myself out with a pill, wake up and ease my way into potential death with little thought..." Maia shrugs. "Or, spend the next couple of hours wondering...At least perhaps I'll have proper closure then."

"W-Wondering about what?" I ask softly.

"My parents." Maia answers. "The interview was great. It showed off all my competencies, just like we planned...But I wish I had said something more substantial about my mother and father. I'm not sure how you or anyone for that matter went through your time here after leaving everything behind so _abruptly_..."

I pick through my clutch and offer Maia a tissue, which she accepts with a polite "Thank you."

"We're a trio of workaholics, my parents and I. What with them being politicians and me following in their footsteps, it's common not to see one another for _days_." She sniffles. "I know they love me in their own little way, but when we so happen to be together under the same roof, everything seems so hollow..."

I place a hand on her knee. "Were your goodbyes like that t-t-to?"

Maia nods. "It was so awkward. I didn't want it to be." Another round of sobs were about to wrack her, but she swallows, sighing. "I wish I could see them one last time, if the worst does happen."

The cheers of the crowds become audible as the limousine lurches to a halt. "I t-t-t-think you'll see them v-v-very s-shortly."

Maia quirks a brow in confusion, but I ignore her, allowing her and Tobias to exit the limousine first. While exiting, Tobias spots Doris' goofy grin and inquires about it, as the escort trills "Nothing!" and gestures for him to exit. This confusion seems to be happening with the other districts as well, as the tributes are herded by Peacekeepers while the escorts, myself and the other mentors make our way from the lineup of limousines and into the Training Center where we stand idly by as the tributes are escorted inside.

When the pandemonium breaks out, I can't help but smile – the first time I've genuinely smiled in a week.

It starts off with the One woman, _shrieking_ out her son's name as she rushes toward him and envelops him into a vice of a hug. How she could do that in heels is beyond me. The situation is the same with each and every tribute. Family members and tributes rush back and forth as shrieks, crying of names, and laughter fills the expansive lobby as they embrace one another. Like the little girl she was on that cover of the Portland Tribune, Maia embraces her parents and teeters back and forth within their grasp as if she were fifteen years younger.

I turn to see the Sixes standing beside me. I follow their eyes to see their pair of tributes in one huddled mass with their loved ones. Zahira kisses her youngest son like it's no tomorrow – _haha_ – while Theilan simply hugs his expecting wife and son in a moment that could be hung and framed.

"Look at that..." Silvia murmurs, arms folded with a wry grin on her lips. "And here I thought we were in a city of monsters?"

I join them while they giggle, turning my eyes to the camera crews who silently film the entire affair. There's no doubt that this whole thing is to save face from what has and will transpire.

Unfortunately, there isn't much of a face left to save.

My eyes immediately spot Piper's from across the way as _she_ spots _me_. We quickly glance the opposite way, weary of any eyes. It's been _days_ since I sent that text through her communicuff, but she still remembers, judging by the looks she keeps shooting me since we've all arrived at the city. The locals in which we've both been in attendance at were too crowded to discuss what I wanted to discuss with her. Like _here_ for example. If this information leaks out...the Faraday name will doused in infamy for a _millennia_.

I shoot her another glance, discreetly tapping my communicuff. Seconds later, I grin when I receive a 'thumbs up' emoji in reply.

* * *

 _ **Aurelia Baudelaire, 31**_  
 _ **District 1 Female**_

* * *

"...And so upon the event of expiry, Ms. Aurelia Baudelaire's stake within the company shall be transferred to a Mister Satin Baudelaire Desjardins to which he will serve as 'president' once he reaches the age of majority, seventeen. Until then, Nikolai Desjardins will have power of attorney over Ms. Baudelaire's affairs as interim president of _Baudelaire Luxury Goods,_ with no limitations of powers vested in him as such. This includes but is not limited to, the issuing of terminations...The approval or disapproval of initiatives both internal and external..."

As the lawyer rattles on in his fluent legalese, I glance around the room which 'seated' Baudelaire's board of directors. My mind being far sharper than it was a few weeks ago when I tentatively decided to show my face within the company once again, I'm very keen on ensuring that my family's legacy is carried on. Any and all transgressions would be swiftly dealt with. Though Judging by the looks on everyone's holographic faces, they seem to be on board with my final dictation.

I kiss the crown of Satin's head while gripping the hand of Nikolai whose been _nothing but_ supportive of me. I expect nothing less of these board members. These were Mother and Father's finest men and women who haven't let me down yet. All except _one man_ of course.

The lawyer places his datapad on the table. "Are there any questions, objections...?"

The table rings out in the negative, as each member bellows out a "No" in response. All but one Gaius Fleming, the chief operating officer of Capitol operations, who raises his hand and offers a curt clearing of his throat.

"I believe the move is a little haste." He says, turning towards me and inclining his head. "With all due respect, Miss Baudelaire, even with potential remediation, Mr. Desjardins isn't fit to run a business as intricate as Baudelaire. Young Satin is far away from the mental faculties to aid in efficient operations..."

Luxe raises a hand, his face marred with skepticism. "What are you proposing, Mr. Fleming?"

Gaius adjusts his glasses. "Well, with I being the head of Capitol operations – the most lucrative region in Panem, mind you – that I be given more freedom to continue on the Baudelaire name. Think of all the fighting that this system will bring on? And again, think about the qualifications of whose heading the company. I foresee trying difficulties in the future."

I shoot him a pointed glare. He offered the same attitude when Father and Mother died. I've also heard many a thing during my... _absence. Things such as_ his meddlesome attitude, his punching above his station in the most negative of ways...His dismissal of me as head of the company.

I sigh. "You know, Mr. Fleming, my father was a strong proponent of the Capitol market. He always ensured that relations were stable between both locations. Unfortunately for you, I don't mind engaging in a few reforms."

Gaius swallows. "...I'm sorry?"

I turn to the lawyer – and my trusty secretary, Topaz Wright – who stenographs the exchange. "Mr. Pryor, let it be known as one of my last executive acts that I hereby dismiss Mr. Gaius Fleming from the board and the company proper. Though I have total say over all company affairs, I am initiating an official quorum for this topic. All in favor of Mr. Fleming's removal please raise your hand."

Utterly flabbergasted, the condemned Capitolite rapidly swivels his head from one end of the table to the next as each member raises their hand resoundingly.

I offer a 'pleasant' grin toward Mr. Fleming. 'Pleasant' meaning I'm thinking of a zillion ways to slight you but doing so would be uncouth. "The motion has passed. You're dismissed, Mr. Gaius."

Before he could retort, I terminate his connection. "Our assets are being recovered from his offices right?"

Mr. Pryor nods. "The Commerce Department and the Peacekeepers will handle it."

I let myself relax, knowing that the future of this company is for the most part, sound. "Very good, Mr. Pryor."

Nikolai places a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Are you _sure_ this is a good idea?"

"Mother and Father wouldn't have it any other way." I nod, planting on his hand a gentle kiss. "Topaz and Luxe Cosgrove will aid you through everything if need be."

He nods, but it isn't a confident one as his face scrounges in slight dejection. "I..."

I entwine my hand in his, which seems to calm him a tad. "I _know_ you're not keen about this, but think about Satin's future. _This_ is rightfully his and he should be able to experience it."

His nod is far more solid than the last. "You're right."

Little Satin – my little Satin – glances over at me, curious. I want to pick him up and cradle him so bad. But he's far too old, so I opt to have him sit on my knees as I play with his hands and caress his cheeks.

"Mummy, what's happening?" he asks, full immersed in his childish ignorance. I clear my throat, stifling the rising sob that was about to burst out of my mouth.

"Oh nothing, my _sweet beautiful_ boy." I plant a lasting kiss on his temple. "I'm just securing your future is all."

* * *

 _ **Thames Montgolia, 25**_  
 _ **District 1 Male**_

* * *

Bellamy glances up from her plate. "We were in the crowd you know."

"You were?" I reply with a quirked brow. "What about the cameras? No one recognized you?"

As Mom and Dad both watch on, Bellamy and I chuckle quietly over dinner. It was a pleasant surprise, seeing them here before being sent into the arena. The stream of questioning from my younger sister was constant, but I was more than happy to oblige her.

"They were probably under orders not to film us or else..." Bellamy replies with a smile and shrug. "Yep, you did _amazing_ out there. I'm surprised we've retained our hearing after your debut."

I pat my lips with a napkin. "A five-star review is expected from my team, but I'm glad that I'm getting an outside perspective."

"How's the gymnasium this year?" Bellamy asks with earnest. "Is it like Edenthew's!?"

I wobble my head back and forth. "I'd say that Edenthew's _looks_ better – seeing as the gym here is a stone pavilion – but the Capitol as expected has a lot more tech."

As Bellamy hums in acknowledgement, I turn my attention to Mother, who affixes me with a look that just _screams_ worry and discontent. I've never seen such a face on her. It doesn't look good. Besides a warm smile and a firm hug, Father has said nothing and continues to say nothing even now as he focuses only on the plate before him.

"Is everything alright, Mom, Dad?" I ask them.

She frowns, turning toward Serene, who sits with her creepy dark-skinned aide in the living room.

"You there, Governor?" Mom calls, rising out of her seat. "Can you assure my son's safety in that arena? We're keen supporters of yours and are _very_ persuasive...So I suggest you answer truthfully lest you want to lose significant support in the next election-"

"Jubilee _, stop it_." Dad hisses, placing a firm hand over hers. "You're working yourself up too much."

I feel a slight pang in my chest. "You still don't trust in me?"

"Career's aren't _invincible_ , Thames." Dad replies, easing Mom back into her chair as she returns to giving me that look. "The past couple of years have proven that."

"Haven't you been watching for the past couple of days?!" I retort back with a scoff. "The constant positive coverage, the chariot rides, _Snow,_ the odds and training scores?"

"That's all for show, Thames..." Dad replies tiredly. "None of that will mean anything when you're tossed into an arena with adults who are just as desperate as you to get out."

"...I just..." Mom closes her eyes and sighs in an attempt to regain her bearings. "I don't know what else you could possibly want? Sure the acting and modeling didn't go your way, but you have the company – a company mind you that recognized Panemwide!"

Dad is comforting her now, a protective hand on her shoulder as if _I'm_ the problem. I spare a glance toward Bellamy who frowns.

"The company is _yours."_ I counter back, attempting to keep my voice level. I almost didn't notice I was gripping the ends of my side of the table for dear life. "I want something for _myself! Something I_ could be proud of!"

I want respect, reputation and prestige that is due only onto me because of my merits. They were supportive at the beginning, but as of late they've done _nothing_ but hinder me.

"The company is _all of ours_!" Dad roars back, gesturing haphazardly to the three of us. "Who do you think takes over when we retire?!"

"Why else would we continue to work, if not to build a life for you?!" Mom cries.

"You've given me the foundation, which I adore you for, but..."

"Mom, Daddy, Thames..." Bellamy cuts in. "You _heard_ what he said, you _saw_ the coverage. He _has_ the training and the support. All we can do is hope that his wish comes true. Arguing over what has already happened won't do any of us good and you know that."

Nodding, I turn my attention back to our parents. Bellamy's words worked, as they seem to have eased a tad.

"Of course Bella," Dad relents. He turns to me and nods. "You are a Montgolia through and through, Thames. If this foray into the Capitol didn't showcase that, I don't know what will."

"Thank you, Dad." I reply, flashing him and Mom a smile as I make my way over to their side of the table, take her hand and gently caress it. "Where would the family be if the guys who came before us didn't have a little ambition?"

* * *

 _ **Sarissa Levesque, 26**_  
 _ **District 2 Female**_

* * *

"Well 'Rissa, you have certainly proved us wrong."

While gently caressing Daxs' furry little head, I smirk at Mom as she sits beside me. Dad finally seems to be coming out of his solemn shell, a proud grin on his face as he regards me from across the tea table. Levi sits beside him, grinning alongside him. I'm surprised he's here to be honest, Levi, but then again, personal time to talk one-on-one hasn't been possible due to my preparation for the Games and his accompanying of my parents to my goodbyes.

Now is a good time as any to tie some loose ends up.

"If you're dead-set on doin' somethin' Mom, you're gonna _do it_ and do it _well_." I reply to her, moving my massage from Daxs' head to his stomach as he rolls over for easier access.

They're worrying about _nothing_. With Jaspy and the majority of the Capitol on my side, there's nowhere to go but _up_. If anything, they're riling _themselves_ up worrying – Mom and Dad.

" _More than well_ , as we've seen. The kids back at Overwhill are _ecstatic_ to see you do your thing." Levi adds, turning towards Dad and clapping his shoulder. "You've raised one _helluva_ daughter, Mr. Levesque."

For the first time in a _long time_ , Dad lets out a warm chuckle. I can't help but grin at it.

"She hasn't fallen far from the tree, that's for sure." Dad nods. "She's living a past dream of mine to a tee."

"Everyone is talkin' bout you dear. I can't heave the house without being stopped." Mom gushes. "And you should've heard the neighborhood when Marceline announced your training score."

I grin. "I'm glad that people back in Two are head over heels. I guess it really is true."

"What's true?"

"That I'm living my dream." I reply with a full smile. And it hasn't even been fully realized yet. I can't wait for the day I finally achieve what I've always wanted.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you guys, but the table has been prepared!" Olivia trills, entering our space with Jasper by her side. "I'm sure there are _plenty_ of dishes that you haven't tried yet!"

"I've done this dance plenty of times, Mr. and Ms. Levesque." Jasper adds with a playful grin. "There are plenty of things I still haven't tried, but I'll do my best to guide you through it."

"That sounds swell." Dad replies. He motions with his head to me and Levi. "What about you two?"

This was my queue to tie that end up. Glancing at Levi, I then gesture to the balcony door. As Levi moves toward it, I turn to Dad and I smile at him. "We'll join you in a second, Dad."

The transition from the living room to the balcony is nice. Natural breeze trumps artificial air conditioning any time. The night is young, so the surrounding buildings and streets below are bustling with lights, people, music and honking horns as they await tomorrow's pandemonium. If we were back in two, off duty, this would be a perfect time for Levi and I to share a drink, chat it up and maybe even canoodle a little bit.

But now...I'm sorry to say it, but I feel very little between the two of us besides a slight confusion. I'm even more confused when he cups my palms and hands me my father's dog tags – both from the academy and his time in the PKs.

"He wanted me to do it, maybe because we're together..." Levi explains, rubbing his hand through his blond quiff. "Are we still together...?"

I brace myself against the railing. If anything, we've been over as soon as the Quell was announced. I dedicated every single waking moment to preparation until now, neglecting everything else, including him. Dates were and few and far between, not to mention rules against fraternization hampering our interactions.

He's a good man, Levi, a charming man. Where most Peacekeepers were rigid and socially boisterous he was meek and relaxed - a shoulder to lean on. He deserves me, but I have more taxing things to worry about at the moment.

"I'm sorry to have led you on like I did." I say, meeting his gaze head on. "Like I said during the interviews, I have one thing on my mind currently..."

"What's the point of my being here?!" Levi blurted angrily, enough to even make me still at his rare outburst.

"That's a good question." I shoot back, but immediately bite my tongue and sigh. I close the space between the two of us, entwining my arm with his as we take in the scenes below. I'm surprised at how tender I'm being right now. "Because you're _caring_ , and I took it f'r granted. I'm sorry that I hurt you, Levi. But you know what volunteering entails so why would _either_ of us wanna continue anythin' in the event things go t'shit? I should've said it sooner."

"You're right." He sighs. "I'm sorry for the outburst."

"I _know_ I am." I say to him. "It's alright. When I do get back, maybe we could try again."

In my peripheries, he grins warmly though I keep my head dead straight. It probably wouldn't work out. Jaspy has told me the stories about the men and women in this city alike. The things they'd do for victors they adore or to _have_ victors they adore. But it's not like I can't have two separate worlds.

"I wonder what Diana thinks about all this..." Levi wonders aloud in a tone not accusatory in any way.

I play with the ID discs in on my neck, glancing out toward the night sky. "Diana would be ecstatic and would want me to bring this shit home."

And I would.

* * *

 _ **Solomon Kohli, 20  
District 2 Male**_

* * *

We glance up from our plates as Olivia steps in between me and Dad's chairs.

"How is everyone doing so far?" she asks, as if she were a waitress in a diner.

Mom smiles politely. "We're doing just fine Olivia, thank you very much for asking."

Arminda raises a hand. "I don't know if anyone's told you, but you're _much more_ personable when you're off the stage rather than on it." She trills icily. The shit-eating grin on her face instantly melts into a grimace as a sharp hiss escapes her lips. "Oww, Mom – that _hurts_!"

Snorting, regardless of the sharp kick Arminda sends to my shin, I turn my attention to mom who gazes at the escort as if nothing transpired.

"We're sorry about that...Arminda can be very snippy." Mom says, casting a glare toward her.

"So I've heard!" Two's escort bubbles. She places a hand on my shoulder. "Sol has been a _swell_ young man so far. You ought to be very proud for having such a patriotic and honorable son!"

I don't show it, but inwardly Olivia's comments warm me to my core. Mom is far more expressive, her smile faltering as she offers a curt nod toward the younger escort.

"She's right," Arminda trills once again, watching Olivia waltz toward the Levesque family over by the living room. "Dad says that everyone seems to have forgotten his past almost overnight."

"Sticking with the PKs would've helped," Dad grunts, his mouth half full with food. "Not this volunteering thing, which I dislike _even more_ than the PKs... But like I said, I _understand_. You seem well on your way..."

"But it's still a _long way, Nassir._ " Mom yearns. Her green eyes flicking over to me, she notices my sharp sigh of annoyance. There she goes, doting on her adult son _yet again_. She sighs, shaking her head in supposed defeat. "But you're doing _well_ regardless, Sol. And...I'm...I'm glad things are working out so far."

"If someone likes something, Lou, they tend to be _good_ at it." Dad drawls on. "However, I imagine there are _plenty_ of other things he's good at, but this is the thing he's taken a shine to."

I continue to eat my food in silence, ignoring their negative take on the situation. They're people who haven't had contact with the Career system at all, so I can't blame them for their hesitance. Dad said it himself. If someone is serious about something, they'll put all their effort into it. And if my eleven in training and my popularity among the Capitolites doesn't showcase this, then nothing will.

Actions speak louder than words, so they say. I agree _wholeheartedly_. Once I'm in there, doing my thing, maybe they'll come around. I glance to Arminda, who has yet to say anything. She was already glancing at me, a pleasant grin on her face that doesn't seem one bit dastardly.

"I think you're doing pretty good so far." She mews softly, a rare tone of voice for someone who constantly locked heads with me since she was in diapers. It never was genuine hate. Intense teasing is just how we express our love for one another.

I smirk. "Thanks _Muttface_."

Arminda reflects my expression, crossing her arms. "No problem, silent _douchebag_."

While dad guffaws, a rare thing to see, Mom sighs sharply. " _Arminda_ –"

"Hey Stupid, I got you something!" she bubbles, ignoring Mom's scolding as she zips from her seat toward the elevator entrance where a canvas bag lay. She picks it up and rushes over to me, disappearing behind my chair. All of a sudden, my neck feels _warmer_ as a gray scarf with white accents adorns my shoulders.

I smile, running a hand along the thick material. "Heh... _neat_."

Arminda returns to her seat. "It isn't as bright as my previous works, obviously, so you don't get killed..." She smiles bashfully at Mom's glare. "Take it as a token. Hopefully my smarts rubbed off on it, so you'll have a better chance at making it through."

In a rare gesture of genuine, non-tongue-in-cheek love, we meet each other at the head of the table and embrace in a hug. It felt... _Nice_ , really nice. I've never had a hug with her in which she clung to me so tightly...not since her kindergarten days. I feel a shudder wrack her body as she exhales.

I rub her back. "Thanks for the gift, Armin – _Muttface_."

She claws my back in a revenge attempt. "You just had to go and ruin a good moment, didn't you?"

"You know me...Being a shitty big brother since _HG 84._ "

"I hate you." She mumbles into me.

"I hate ya too."

* * *

 _ **Maia Clear, 19**_  
 _ **District 3 Female**_

* * *

"You don't understand how happy I am to have you here with me." I say to Mother and Father, squeezing them deeper into our embrace. They do the same, Mother nuzzling my right temple with her cheek and Father kissing my left hand. If the occasion were any different, this would be considered embarrassing, but I enjoy it all the same. Since running into their arms back in the lobby, we've been joined together like popsicle sticks to glue. If you ask me, this makes up for the countless years of little to no affection from either of them.

For the first time in days, I feel _grounded_ again. I've never felt better...Despite what's about to transpire.

"You don't know what you have until it's gone." Father says.

Mother tuts while leaning her head against mine. "It's not like we don't know, we _know_ we have a good thing with you. It's just...It's just that we already knew you were doing great things, but didn't bother acknowledging it."

"We were too busy focusing on work." Father said, clearing his throat while continuing to mindlessly caress my hand.

"But it was to lay a foundation for _you_..." Mother added, shaking her head. "Perhaps we got too carried away."

"It's not your fault." I reply, grinning sadly at each of them. We're Threes. Excellence in everything that we do is instilled in us from birth. For them it would be no different. Showcasing my constant A's from grade one to eight were rewarded with cheerful celebration. But by the time I reached high school the praise was casually dismissive. It was _expected_ by that point. "Look where I was before all this. I was going to the University of Panem in _the_ Capitol. I was going to _be something_ , thanks to _your_ guidance."

Father's grip around my hands intensifies enough for me to face him. His expression was firm. "We're _proud_ of you for that. We could take you out for dinner and say it again and again, but it still wouldn't be enough." He complements. "Even _we_ didn't attend the Capitol for school!"

"Senator Maia Clear...That would've been _lovely_." Mother croaks sadly. She immediately reaches for tissues, to stem the flow of tears.

I shake my head vigorously and my tears along with it. ' _Would've', 'Could've'_...Talking as if I was already finished _doesn't_ help. "It still could be. I may not be the strongest or wizened, but I'm still a _Clear_." The tears were flowing freely now as I swallow down a hiccup. "And if _nineteen years_ of being a Clear has taught me _anything_ at all, it's to ensure that everything is done without a _percentage_ to spare."

Father chuckles softly, raising a hand and caressing my cheek. "That's our girl... _My little secret weapon_."

That sets her off, as Mother is crying outwardly now. But her wails are quickly stifled by my intensifying of the hold I have on her. Father somehow envelopes the both of us in a warm embrace.

My chances may be slim, but I'm not going down so easily. The Games were just one big exam. And Being a Clear, I always know the end result of those.

* * *

 _ **Tobias Ledger, 63**_  
 _ **District 3 Male**_

* * *

Melany eyes the scene with tight lips.

"Poor kid..." she says lamely. "Surely they could've scrounged up a rebel family or something..."

Eyeing them as well, I nod with a slight grunt. I couldn't help but agree. One of Panem's upcoming stars was on the verge of being put out and for _what_ exactly? I spent my time through the reaping pool taking an apathetic approach - being glad that each year, it wasn't me. From eighteen until recently, I only cared about the betting pools. To take an old crook like me, sure, but making it so that someone like Maia gets placed on the block is just asking for problems if you ask me.

I can't say I care to the point where she should come out over me, but I do feel for the girl.

"They didn't think things though." I say, scanning the deck of cards in my hand. Why not engage in one last game of "War" before I'm tossed into the slaughter. Melany and I used to play all the time when she was little.

I flip my deck over, drawing one as Melany draws one. My ace of spades beats her two of hearts. "It's gonna bite them in the butt, if it hasn't already."

I glance around for Doris – the escort – but she don't peg me as the type to fink.

"The kids at her school are planning to protest the reaping process..." Melany says in a low voice, her eyes scanning her deck as she shuffles them around. She draws a king of hearts while I draw an ace of spades. "A friend in customs says that Eight is under stringent curfew as well as parts of Five. Six is about to bubble over but thanks to their male..."

"How ya guys doin. Well?" Doris' squeaky voice emits from beside me, prompting both of us to jump. This doesn't faze the girl one bit, who shifts her gaze between myself and Melany with a bright smile glued on her face. The alterations she made to her body will never sit right with me, despite how attractive she looks. You could peg her as a ghost just as much as a person that stepped out of an ancient photograph. "I see you guys have a high stakes game goin on!"

"Why do you speak like that?" Melany deadpans, muttering something about "...Goddamn comical..."

"She's from the Far East Side – the Capitol's working class borough." I answer simply, my eyes never leaving the deck. Melany draws an ace of clubs while I draw an ace of spades. It's war. We each draw four cards, revealing our fourth. My ace of spades beats her joker I take all the cards.

I glance up at the young woman who has her arms folded and hips cocked to the side. "How'd you know that?" she asks in a playful tone.

I grin. "PK friend of mine hails from the same place...Sullivan?"

"Eh, never herda him." Doris replies, shrugging. "Everyone seems situated so I'll be downstairs. Tell an avox if ya need me!"

Melany eyes Doris as she leaves, raising her brows up and down. "Look at that...I just learned that escorts have some _humanity_ in them."

"She ain't bad." I admit. She's, like most escorts, are just caught up in the hype of it all. "Back to our little game..."

Melany nods. "Mhm..."

"So uh...Any plans after this is all over?" I ask her. Inwardly, I cringe knowing that she'd be _the last Ledger alive._

She grins sadly. "...Nah. I'll just keep working at the factory I suppose."

"That's good," I nod. "Keeping your head down like that. Unlike me and your dad, you might be longer for the world that way."

I frown as Melany glances upward. That didn't seem like the right thing to say, but she takes it in stride with a quirk of the brown in apparent agreement. Melany never was the type to be sensitive.

"No settling down?" I ask her. She was thirty-six and very beautiful for Three standards. Never have I ever seen her date anyone... _anyone!_ It's always been a question on my mind that I've never asked.

Melany shrugs. "Maybe one day, but I won't be hunting."

"Why not?" I ask with a frown. "Isn't that frustrating, looking around at all the couples and whatnot?"

She shrugs again. "No interest."

I smile, nodding as I leave it at that. Melany was always something special. Something tells me she'll be just fine. "Fair enough."

Melany places her cards on the table, shooting me a pointed look. "So what's your _real goal?_ Or is what you said during the interview true?"

I nod in the affirmative. "More or less, it's true. Though you know me, everything I do is subject to change." I grin.

I'm a big believer in flipping the chess table when things don't go your way. But alas, there's little to no wiggle room to flip the arena in a Hunger Games. You can't plan ahead, I say. You can only react in the moment, which again, is something I have an affinity for. How far it will take me here...?

"Though you yourself are burning, you continue to play with fire..." she deadpans, shaking her head while grinning somewhat. "Yep, that's the Uncle Tobi I know."

I grin, leaning forward toward her. "Listen...Uh... I left you a little something in my car. It's all my savings. I imagine it'll serve as good cushioning for whatever you want."

"How much have you managed to swindle?" She asks tiredly.

I chuckle like a caught kid. "...Fifteen thou?"

An exasperated sigh escapes Melany's lips. " _Oh_ , Uncle Tobi..."

I let out a howl of laughter, cutting it short as I glance at the solemn Clear family. "Hey...At least I can say I did _one last_ nice thing for you. Where do you think your birthday gifts come from?"

"That explains a lot." A grin slowly spreads across her lips. "Thanks for the _pilfered cash_ , Uncle Tobi."

I tip my fedora toward her. "You're welcome...Here's hoping the PKs don't pay you a visit."

The Avoxes were beginning to come out with trays of food. "Let's finish up this Game before we eat, shall we?" says Melany, glancing back toward me.

"Sure, one more bout." I reply with a shrug. Melany plays her queen of clubs while I play my ace of spades once more.

" _Bastard_." Melany groused with a smirk and a disappointed shake of the head. "Don't think I haven't noticed the _repeated_ playing of that same damned card over and over."

"I can't help it!" I say, shooting my hands into the air. "You always used to get so upset when you were little. _"Uncle Tobi, that's no fair!"_ " I mimic, folding my hands for added effect. "You were so cute back then. Now you're like your _grandma_."

Her features soften at this, as Melany closes her eyes and shakes head slowly. Tears flooding out from her eyes as she sighs. "Here you go, since you _always_ seem to have an ace up your sleeve."

I watch as she slips up the ace of spades, raises it into the air and fits it into my fedora.

* * *

 _ **Nautia Novakova, 29**_  
 _ **District 4 Female**_

* * *

"Wow, they've really changed the place up since the War..." Michal says, gazing past the balcony toward the Avenue of Tributes. We were on the rooftop terrace of the Training Center, taking in the city proper.

"You've been here, during the War nonetheless?" Idelia raises a brow. "So you weren't always a businessman extraordinaire..."

"Not always, no." Cackling sadly, he adjusts his glasses. "It was during my navy days - _staffing_ , non-combat...Though with recent developments, I can't say I'm happy to see it right now."

That may have set Loire off, as if she wasn't already distraught since our reunion in the lobby. Clinging to me from my waist, a sob escapes her lips as Loire dips down, nearly taking me down with her. Michal and Idelia move to help, but I gently wave them off, tugging my baby sister to her feet and clutch her by the shoulders. This isn't something I haven't dealt with in the past.

"Loire, Loire _listen_ to me." I soothe, offering her a tissue. She gulps, accepting it with a sniffle as she dabs her eyes. "I'm still here, don't be sad."

"But for how long?" she falters, gazing into my eyes with her glossy ones.

I pull her into a hug, something she returns with equal earnest. "I've seen what our parents did to you and you barely pulled yourself out of that ditch. I know it's hard, but _please_ don't let this swallow you whole."

Expression was never really her strong suit, as she struggles to come up with the words. Instead her lips warble and her eyes tremble. I pull her back into our embrace.

"Please, do it for me. Do it for _you_. Save up, go to school. Maybe _find someone._ You're a beautiful girl, you'll be so much better off." I plead. When I get a nod in the affirmative, I plant a kiss on her forehead. "I love you lots."

"I love you too." She replies.

I gesture to Michal and Idelia. "And _they_ love you too."

"We're not going anywhere, Loire." Ideal echoes, laying a tender hand on hers as Michal wraps her in an embrace. We stay like this for minutes, Loire leaning into Mr. Conway for support while Idelia entwines my hand in hers as we gaze out into the Capitol's cityscape. When Michal and Loire return to Four's floor, Idelia and I quickly make our way to an empty hammock and dip into it. It was like our early dates all over again, roaming hands, eager kisses and a beautiful evening sky.

"I've missed this _so much_." I murmur, entwining my hand with hers.

"Get back to me so _this_ doesn't have to end." Idelia teases as she nuzzles my cheek. "You're doing so well..."

"Here's hoping that ' _well'_ is well enough." I murmur. "The strategy of being a stable tribute – more competent than a crowd pleaser – is working, but when you see the other tributes...And their motivations..."

Many mothers, an accomplished scientist, doctors an author...You can't help but feel inadequate compared to those.

"When you see the other tributes?" Idelia repeats incredulously. She scoffs, shaking her head as she grips my chin with her manicured fingers and spins my head her way. "Unfortunately, none of them matter but _you_. Love is a simple but effective reason for besting the others and coming out on top. It's just as valid as fame, children or retail empires..."

Another tender kiss from Idelia to me erases most of the worry.

"I know...I haven't forgotten." I answer. "It's just..."

"There is no "It's just" or "Buts" about it." Idelia interjects. "Just try doing more 'doing' than 'thinking'. If your thoughts aren't about me or Loire or surviving, they aren't worth having."

"You're right." I answer, returning my gaze out into the night stars.

* * *

 _ **Warren Holt, 19**_  
 _ **District 4 Male**_

* * *

"Warren, you were _amazing_ out there." Lakely gushes. "By the time you came out, my ears were _quadrupled_ popped."

We're sitting around Four's dining room table now, eating, drinking and being merry. I could've sworn my feet were going to crumple from under me if Hudson and Lakely didn't scoop me into a hug. Them being here to see me off is only the sugar on top of an already sweet experience. I can't forget Gran, who sits at the head of the table. She's unlike her typically lucid self. She's _aware_ and eating _full meals_! As she listens to us converse.

"Yeah, the girls in the audience wouldn't stop _squawking_ about how ' _cute'_ you were." Hudson sniffed with a nose raised in the air. He smirks when I reach under the table and give his thigh a playful caress.

"So the wannabe Finnick thing is sticking then...?" I sigh, rolling my eyes at the collective _mhm_ from Hudson and Lakely. I suppose that's not a bad thing. Anything for sponsors and crowd favoritism!

Lakely sneers while sipping her drink. "Doesn't it stick with _all_ Four guys?" she teases.

"Marissa said we should play it up, so we did." I answer with a shrug. We wouldn't want to shut down one half of my support now would we?

"Besides the middle age moms gushing for you...You're coming along pretty well." Hudson comments as he plops a piece of salmon into his mouth, swallowing. "That villa in Victor's Village almost seems like a sure thing!"

" _I know right? I_ can't wait." I beam. I can picture it now. An open view of the gulf from a mountain villa with Hudson by my side, our entire lives ahead of us filled with little wants or worries. Lakely gets the training she needs to join me. Gran gets her proper medicine...Speaking of Gran...I spy her from the head of the table. She seems rather upset, as her fork remains dug into a side of potatoes while her hand wobbles somewhat. She fixes me a look that I can't really decipher. Hopelessness comes to mind when I stare at her milky eyes and sad frown.

My food now finished, I place my silverware on my now empty plate. "Gran, what's wrong? You look like an upset sea."

She jerks her head toward the living room, and moves to rise out of her seat. Hudson follows, but a single raised hand stops him in his tracks as Gran collects her cane and hobbles over while I follow her every move.

"Why would you _do this?_ " she hisses. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

 _Oh gee..."_ Of course I told you..." I falter.

She shakes her head. "No, Lakely and Hudson did."

 _Well, that's one way of telling you._ "I didn't want you to get upset."

Gran's face darkens. "Well, I am. I'm more sad than angry. Throwing away your life for something you _can't fight_...You didn't even ask me for my opinion on the matter? Did you give any thought to the fact that maybe, I'd rather meet my maker on my own terms?"

I frown, rubbing a hand through my hair. Hudson and Lakely watch from afar, concerned. No, I didn't ask for her opinion because she was too loopy to talk to her about most things. How could I, especially something so taxing as the Hunger Games?

"You were _too sick."_ I explain lamely. "And besides, we're _family_. It only makes sense that I try to _help_!"

Gran shakes her head. "Hudson was more than enough, Warren."

"A stopgap measure from out deadbeat dad doesn't cut it Gran!" I hiss back in reply. I sigh sharply, as Gran hobbles to the sofa and dips onto it. I guess the conversation was getting to her. "So what, you don't trust me?"

An Avox walks over with a tumbler of water which Gran accepts graciously.

"District 4 isn't what it used to be..." Gran begins, only to sip steadily from the tumbler.

I groan, joining her on the couch. "C'mon, Snow Island is out of the running. One and Two are more than manageable...Everyone else will be too _desperate_ to form proper strategies."

"Ok Warren...If you say so," Gran replies wearily, her eyes rapidly blinking. "I hope for your sake and mine as well as Lakely and Hudson's that your convictions are strong enough to see you through the gale." She reaches into her pocket, revealing tissues, as she raises a wad to pad down her eyes. "I could've bear to see any other alternative."

I wave her off dismissively. "Don't you worry Gran. _Warren 'Confidence' Holt_ is prepped and ready to go."

* * *

 _ **Tuesday Suetos, 44**_  
 _ **District 5 Female**_

* * *

"How are you taking the Capitol so far, dearie?"

I glance up from my stew, taking in the faces that stare back at me. Mom, Dad, Marissa, _Kanton_ all glance at me with looks of pity etched on each of their faces. There isn't much to pity, as they could simply go on with life with marginal difficulty but that difficulty does become bearable after a short term.

Or was it concern? They were concerned for my well being. Regardless, I think it'd be best if they looked after their own health rather than mine. It would do them no good to worry themselves like they are.

I swallow. "I've been here before, Mom, for conferences and the like. It seems to go under change constantly."

Mom and Dad again exchange sad smiles while I glance over to Marissa, who sighs while rubbing her temples.

"What's the matter?" I deadpan, smiling at Dr. Whiskers who trills on my lap.

"She means to ask _how you are_ , Tuesday." Marissa replies with a strained expression.

Oh yes, how I'm taking the Capitol meaning how I'm coping with the Hunger Games looming over my head.

"I'm living...For now." I answer. I mean what? I'm skating through the motions right now. There's no use thinking about anything besides the task at hand. Just like an _operation_. It's working for me so far, I'd say. I return to eating my stew. When no one replies, I glance upward. _Again_ with those expressions on their faces that I can't really decipher. I think about Piper and the escort's words earlier this morning in regards to my interview preparation.

 _"Just...Try to not be blunt for a few minutes..."_

 _"No one likes a Debbie downer."_

As much as it hurts, I form a tight grin with my lips and look each of them in the eye. They are friend on the account of Kanton and family, and if they came here to see me off then that deserves respect.

"Thank you all for coming to see me." I say. "It really means a lot that you came here. Sure things have been very tough to decipher, but you know me, being thick-skinned is my strong suit."

"But of course Tues, why wouldn't we?" Dad replies. He glances toward Marissa, who places a supportive hand on him.

"We _love_ you, Tuesday." Marissa adds.

"But I haven't really shown that love back to you, have I?" I say to her, allowing Dr. Whiskers to roam the apartment. "I'm sorry about that. Work is very demanding – Kanton should know – so I suppose its rigors seep out into my personal life. I just wanted to let you know that the love was always there, regardless if I didn't showcase it."

This seems to resonate with Marissa, who smiles. "I know you care, Tuesday. I do too, even if we aren't always seeing each other."

I nod. "Good. I feel the same way."

Soon, the table thins to only me and Kanton, the escort offering to guide Marissa and our parents on a tour up to the rooftop, not before Marissa shoots a wink my way. With them gone, Kanton and I exchange smiles. I pat down the empty chair next to me prompting him to quickly move over.

"I heard that you have romantic interest in me?" I ask him. I was surprised to hear Marceline explain that to me during my interview. Since running into him again in the lobby, I no longer see him in the goofy light I once saw him in. Instead now I find Mr. Jaxter intriguing.

He scratches his head, a sheepish smile on his face. "Yeah...On and off since university actually. I was surprised they mentioned it actually..."

"Why?" I reply weakly. Romance was more of a high school, post secondary thing. I don't think I have many qualities that would make me 'attractive' in someone's eyes. But here I was the object of Kanton's affection. I don't object when he clasps my free hand in his.

"Whaddya mean, _why?"_ he breathes, an airy chuckle escaping his lips."You're smart, _stunning_...The snarky, sarcastic personality you always seem to showcase even though you're not aware of it. You're a great woman, Tuesday. I wish I had told you this years ago."

For the first time in eons, my cheeks tingle with heat. "You think I'm _all_ those things?"

He rubs a thumb over my knuckles. "I could say more, but I'd appear a fool if I tried to formulate anything else."

A chuckle escapes my lips and then _another_ , surprising me and Kanton as he joins in too. And _there it is_...Some of that _humanity_ that I've wanted to experience that I've lost ever since my first day within the hospital system. I tentatively take his hand and gently place it on my cheek, welcoming the warmth it brought.

I believe I can say I'm entering the arena with little to no doubts now.

* * *

 _ **Geronimo Busan, 24**_  
 _ **District 5 Male**_

* * *

"This reminds me so much of the last night me and your father had together during the war before he went to fend off the Capitol and...You know the rest..." Mom sniffles as a bevy of tears escape her eyes. I offer her tissues from the coffee table in front of us, which she gingerly accepts. "Can you believe that? Widowed and childless at fifty-four...Life barely began for you, your father or me for that matter and now it's _all over_."

I smooth down her back as another round of sobs hit her. I'm really only taking it all in too. She'll be all alone, with no one to care for her. She did well, raising me without Dad for all these years, never letting her pain show when the Capitol celebrated their triumph against the rebels year after year. But with me being out of the picture too, how could anyone handle a situation like that?

"It isn't over yet, Mom." I soothe, handing the box of tissues back to Abraham, who was squeaking bloody murder since I took it away from him. The hamster quickly goes back to gnawing on the box. I'm sure they have zillions of those boxes lying around. I wish "Didn't you see my training score, the placement predictions? Even _I'm surprised_ they've taken a slight liking to me."

"I _did_ see. Everyone back home is very proud of you and Dr. Suetos. I'm very ' _proud'_ of you." She replies. "But you know...a mother's fear trumps everything else, including logic."

I smirk. "I understand, Mom."

She reaches into her purse, fishing out a University of Panem magazine. The title read _"Before HG 99: The Life That Was There."_

"That professor you work with often, I forget his name, says that he was going forward with publishing the photos you shot of that arena last year. There was also talk about them being archived...Amazing job Gio."

As I flick through each page, I can't help but smile at the idyllic images of irradiated stag, gutted warehouses with light creeping in and abandoned playgrounds. " _Nice_..." I breathe and chuckle. At least my work was being immortalized.

Mom jabs a finger towards the image of a dilapidated playground. I follow it, and then look up to see a resolute face staring back at me. "You know what to do out there, even more than the Careers." She says. "So you use that knowledge to the best of your ability, _okay_?"

I offer a singular nod, allowing her to pull me into an embrace that I need so much right now. "Of course Mom."

* * *

 ** _Zahira Kazimirova, 33_**  
 ** _District 6 Female_**

* * *

I glance over at Luci and Cyril beside me. "How do you like Capitol food so far, my babies?"

It's a full table, with my parents, Luci and Cyril alongside Theilan, his mother, Neha and their son taking up a spot. Even Izzy joins us, taking up the head of the table as we all dig into our meals. Despite the fact that this may be our _last_ dinners, I can't help but languish in the fact that our two families are in this thing together. It seems our alliance extends to outside the arena as well. Still...One family is going to be awfully upset by the end of this, multiple families will. Hopefully _mine_ won't be in that group.

"Ma, this tastes _amazing_."Cyril moans.

Lucius pats down his lips with a napkin. "Yeah, but it sure don't beat your cooking...or Grandma's!"

Theilan caresses the shoulder of his son. "How about you Tanav, how are the eats?"

The little boy vigorously nods his head. "Yummy!"

This earns a round of soft chuckling from the adults in the room. When they die down, I spy Luci whispering to Cyril as they both cast glances at Izzy, who focuses on eating her food.

I tap the young victor. "Izzy, my sons are _huge_ fans of yours."

"...Really?" she beams, glancing across the way to the both of them. She has a spasm – a twitch in her left eye – but they don't mind it at all.

Luci nods, balling his fists as he shadow boxes. "You really bopped that Ten boy _real good._ "

"And the way you outsmarted that Two boy during the end was _priceless_." Cyril adds. "I don' think I've ever heard Six cheer so loudly in my life."

"Thanks a bunch," Izzy says, shrugging. "When in the arena, you gotta do what you gotta do..."

As the hours dwindle closer and closer to the event in question, the mood of the surprise meeting in the lobby dwindles. I find myself sitting on the couch, Luci and Cyril cuddled up beside me for dear life. Chevy takes her place by our feet while Izzy spectates the affair from a nearby recliner.

"Did you hear anything from back home regarding _business_?" I ask Cyril.

"No Ma, nothing." He replies. "Giovanni says you were onto something regarding your... _'work'_ and that it's a shame you won't be able to complete it."

I mutter a curse under my breath. Being the daughter of a _prominent_ district councilor and hailing from a generally _loyal_ family, I _doubt_ my reaping was legitimate. Maybe after the business with Virgil, they didn't trust me anymore, thought I was a loose end needing to be tied.

I quickly dismiss the thoughts with a sigh and the shake of the head. Maybe if I got out, I could solve the issue. But now, I have my boys to worry about.

"You two know I love you _so very much_ , right?" I ask, earning a "Mhm" in unison from the two of them. I jostle the shoulder of Cyril, who glances up at me with features identical to mine. I run a gentle hand through his undercut. "You're such a smart, handsome young man. You keep on keeping on, okay? With your grandparents' help, the sky's the limit."

"Ok Ma..." He replies, leaning into my lips as I plant a kiss on his forehead. I turn to Luci, who offers that troublesome grin of his. It was identical to the same one his father gave me when we first met. He moves a hand to protect that coveted pompadour of his. It recedes when I gently smooth it down.

"You already know what I have to say, young man. _Stay out of trouble._ " I press, wringing his ear for good measure and relishing in the "Oww!" he bleats. "Listen to your grandparents. A lotta kids don't have what you got so don't waste it or they'll toss you out on your butt. Okay?"

"No promises." He trills back in reply, groaning when he receives a kiss to the forehead in return. "But you _are_ trying to come back, right?"

"Of course I am, Luci...of course." I coo. "I just wanna let it be known...Just in case."

I look over to the recliner to hear Izzy clearing her throat. This is probably the third time I've seen the usually happy young woman strangled with sadness. Sadness is not a good look on her.

"Do you need one of my talks too, missy?" I joke.

"I'm sorry Zahira," she mewls, blinking back tears. "It's just that it's so nice just watching you with your kids and Theilan...If you guys don't make it, I don't think I handle that..."

"Well Izzy," I begin, sighing. "Chances are you will _have_ to handle it, even if you don't want to." When she moves to continue talking, I raise a polite hand. "You see these two boys? I would like to get back to them. Focus on doing that for _us_. If that doesn't work out, ok. But that doesn't mean that you shut down, like Silvia and Koller. You're a smart girl Izzy." She grins at this, causing me to grin as well. "You proved the nation wrong last year. People will be looking to you for guidance above the other two. Ok?"

She swallows, nodding. "Okay."

I sigh, giving Luci and Cyril a reassuring rub with either hands. "Good."

* * *

 _ **Theilan Caldron, 34**_  
 _ **District 6 Male**_

* * *

"How are things back home, Neha?" I ask her. "You know, with Tanav and the baby? I can't forget about Mom..."

With her, Tanav and the baby here in my life again – for a short while – I couldn't help but ask about the outside world. She begins to tell me about the rumblings of 'protests' and 'retaliation' being whispered around. It was just as I feared, but I don't blame them. Soft words weren't going to work anymore.

Neha rubs the back of Tanav, who's fast asleep on the bed. I don't blame him one bit. "I wish I was there to hear what people had to say about your conversation with _Marceline_...If they even showed it _at all."_

"It was that 'bad'?" I ask. I watch from the corner of my eye as she eases onto her feet and makes her way over to me. She places a hand on my back and begins to gently rub clockwise, soothing me.

"Well, you definitely laid out the issues for everyone to see." She replies wearily. "I wouldn't be surprised if they messed the feed up back home."

"They couldn't mess with the feed live...And besides," I shrug, glancing out through the window into the cityscape. "Nothing I said was inflammatory."

If they based the _entirety_ of the interviews off of inflammatory statements, they wouldn't have _anything_ to show to Panem at-large.

"But it still gave people a moment to _think._ " Neha presses. "They hate that just as much as violence."

"People need to _think_ _some more,_ we both know that." I counter lightly. "I just hope that they put their angry thoughts into productive resistance, not _violent_ resistance."

"Well, in more _personal_ news." Neha sighs while sitting on the edge of the bed. I join her. "Esne had a breakdown, so they decided against making her travel."

"Send her my love...if possible." I ask. Mom never was stable, even when she was younger. It made growing up incredibly difficult. Nonetheless, she's _still_ my mother.

"I will." She nods, rubbing her stomach. " _Everyone_ , the guys at the clinic, Erika, Jaiven, Zahira's parents...They've _all_ stepped in. I'm damn near overwhelmed by the amount of help I've been given..."

"That's good..." I reply evenly. "I'm glad things are going well, so far..."

"Yes, everything is _fine_ but Aesha and Tanav could use their _father_ _in the picture_." Her voice cracks into a sob, a sob that she quickly stifles as she glances back at Tanav who sleeps soundly. I offer her my handkerchief which she accepts.

"You don't worry about me, Neha, you just focus on continuing to do a great job with Tanav and Aesha when she gets here." I soothe. If she cried a second longer, I would've joined her too.

She glances up at me, cupping my cheeks with her warm hands. "Don't be silly Theilan. What about you? _You_ are who matters at the moment."

I shake my head within her grasp, raising my hands to cup hers. "I don't exactly matter at the moment, _no I don't._ All of Panem might break down at the seams." I explain. _"Six might break down._ If things continue on as normal, even if they _don't,_ promise me you'll continue our work – serving others, benefiting the neighborhood."

She offers only a silent nod, but it's more than enough. The Quell is far too detrimental to look at only one person – myself – while _everyone_ is hurting be it by the Games, the constant executions or the uncertainty the Capitol is shrouded in.

"...I'll be fine, love." I reply, capturing her lips in a quick and gentle kiss. "All I can do is try. Hopefully, if Tanav sees me now or in the future, he'll see me as a dignified human...not a mindless killing _automaton_."

That would be more than enough for me.


	32. Night Before The Games - Part Two

**_Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games  
_** ** _The Night Before the Games  
Part Two _**

* * *

_**Verona Kinsley, 63**_  
 _ **District 7 Female**_

* * *

"How does it _feel_?" Zara asks, prodding the prosthetic of Celosia's arm. It was a sleek, carbon black thing. I wonder why they didn't just make a shade akin to her skin colour, but then I remember this is the _Capitol_ we're talking about and that arm of hers has been a topic of interest twenty years on from her... _acidic victory._ "Is it like a _normal_ body part?"

"Basically," the victor shrugs. "The stub of my shoulder is connected to a nerve interface. It has the same weighty feel as my old arm. It's almost as if nothing's changed."

"Do you sleep with it?" Zara asks.

Celosia shrugs. "Most of the time, I detach it before going to bed."

"Can you crush something with it?!" Jonah blurts, earning sharp rebuking from Zara and Simona. "It's a perfectly legit question!"

"I'm surprised it wasn't the first to be asked." Celosia snickers, glancing around the room. "Here uh...Give me something, anything."

Jonah tosses a fake apple from the centerpiece bowl into her hand. Celosia then wanders to the nearest trashcan, holds the apple over it with her prosthetic, and squeezes. The apple shatters into smithereens as she lets the dust settle into the pan below. Smacking her hands together, Celosia offers a curtsy while the kids politely applaud her.

"You guys aren't here to see _me_." She chides, nodding off in my direction. The teenagers quickly make their way toward me, standing on either side of the recliner I occupy. I pay them little mind, instead flipping through a scrapbook I had made some years ago. With each flip of a page, I would point out the various pictures I had taken of them from infancy up until recently. They may not have been my birth children, but they were mine all the same. All the children under my charge were.

"I've done such a good job with you three, haven't I?" I ask aloud sadly, reveling in the chorus of agreement that comes from them. I take in each and every one of their identical faces. Look at them, eighteen years old and about to start their own lives doing whatever they please. It brings some comfort, knowing that they all made it past the reaping bowl and onto something _tangible_.

I startle when they plop another scrapbook on my lap.

"What's this now?" I wonder with a slight grin.

"This is a little gift," Zora begins.

"From us and the elder kids from the home," Simona adds.

"We couldn't all come, so this was the best we could do..." mumbles Jonah.

When I open it, I'm surprised to see the hundreds of signatures and paragraphs of well wishes that take up each and every page. Some come from current residents of the home, others from children who have moved on with their lives.

From Bayly E. _"Hello Ms. Kinsley...Thank you oh so much for being that parental force that I was lacking..."_

From Jonathan N _. "I'll miss you very much..."_

From Ivy H. _"Thank you for teaching me..."_

From Gea, my partner in crime since birth. _"I could fill this entire book, but that wouldn't be fair now would it?"_

"Easy Grandma," consoles Jonah, pushing a tissue into my vision. "You'll smudge the writing."

"I'm sorry." I choke back a sob. Not only is my work being recognized, but it's being _remembered_ too. Now I know that if – when I die in that arena...I won't just be forgotten in two weeks.

"Thank you for everything you've done, Grandma." Simona says, pulling me into a side hug. "Let it be known that a lot of people will miss you."

I grin weakly at her. I hate the fact that we're talking as if this is goodbye – writing off any potential chance – but who are we really kidding here?

"You guys make sure to stick together and live life to the fullest." I warn, waggling a finger to all three of them. "I didn't bust my keister doting over you from birth only for you to end up on the streets dropping morphling or whatever. You're family, and any time you find yourself struggling with something, try to imagine what I would think about the situation. Ok?"

"Yes grandma," they sound off in unison.

"Good. Now come and give your grandma some love." I stand, allowing the three of them to wrap around me like they were four years old again. "You three were my greatest test, that's for sure."

Seated again, I slowly skim through each and every message, realizing that my career in service wasn't being cut in half, but was genuinely finished. Sure, there could've been many more years, but they would've been the cherry on top.

"So...Is this it then?" Jonah murmurs.

I sigh, turning the scrapbook to its last page where a giant and bold " _THANK YOU"_ and _"WE LOVE YOU!"_ is scrawled out in fancy writing. "I'm afraid so, Jonah."

* * *

 ** _Chris Samera, 30_**  
 ** _District 7 Male_**

* * *

"How are you feeling, Chris?" Stacia asks, pouring another round of coffee into my mug. I immediately take a sip, savoring the liquid as its warmth radiates through my body. For once in my life, I'll say that the bitterness of coffee beats the buzz of booze at the moment.

" _Much more_ grounded, that's for sure." I reply, turning toward Mary. I frown at the look of contempt she lobs on me. I hate that look so much. "I'm _sorry_ Mary...I just couldn't be bothered with the whole thing, is all."

"We can't exactly blame the guy..." chimes a sniggering Boggy. "If I were him, I'd go through the _entire week_ sauced." He lets out a cackle, cutting it short when Stacia shoots her own lethal glare at him.

"Hey Patrick, what did you think about my performance tonight?" I ask him still chuckling from Boggy's joke.

"You were funny, everyone was laughing!" he exclaims, shooting his hands up into the air. I ruffle his hair, watching as he continues to devour the spaghetti in front of him.

"You see, and as long as Pat enjoyed it, I think I'm in the clear." I say with folded arms.

"You didn't make a _total_ fool out of yourself..." Mary relents with a sigh.

"Out of this whole thing, at least Pat will have something to remember me by." I blurt, immediately regretting as flashes of anguish spread across everyone' face. "I'm sorry." I pull Mary close, who suppresses her tears by balling both fists together. "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong Daddy?" Pat asks, watching on in confusion as I kiss his mother's temple. I turn to him, a reassuring smile on my lips. "Nothing sport, just a bad joke."

"So...What's the plan?" Boggy asks. "When you get in there, I mean?"

"Link up with my allies and move on from there?" I answer, shrugging. "I don't want to give it that much thought beyond that..."

"Did you guys talk about the Careers at all?" Stacia asks.

"I don't think they'll be a significant problem..." I say with a shake of my head. "Again, we'll have to see when I go in there."

I don't think _any_ other group will be a significant problem...Because I've spoken to them all. They all seem like decent people...Makes me wonder how tomorrow will go.

"Daddy, where are you goin?" Pat pipes up with big, bright eyes. Sighing, Mary rises out of her seat and wanders toward the kitchen, her hands on her hips as she glances up into the air in supposed frustration. Stacia and Boggy exchange weary looks. I grab Pat's chair, and gently twist it so he was facing me fully.

"Well sport" I begin, "Where did mommy say I was going?"

"On a trip somewhere." He answers with a shrug. "Can I come?!"

A dry chuckle escapes my lips as I ruffle his hair once more. "I don't think you'd want to come on this trip, pal."

He frowns. "Why?"

"The people are meanies." I explain, biting my lip to suppress the chuckle that threatens to burst out.

"When are you coming back?" he asks.

 _I dunno if I'll be back._ "...I'll be coming back soon, buddy."

"Hmm, ok!" he nods, rushing over to Mary. He tugs at her dress as she kneels down so he could whisper in her ear. She hands him something, watching as he rushes over back to me. "Here, have this! Mom says it's a tok-e-en."

He presses the token into my palm, my emerald pendant – a gift from my mother on Mary and I's wedding day. Patrick's grin turns into a full blown smile, reflective of the one I'm giving him now. "Thanks sport – in fact, I'll put it on right now! This should give me the bestest of luck on my trip tomorrow!"

"Who knows Pat," Mary says to him, joining us and kneeling by his side. She takes an almost possessive position, laying her hands on his chest in a side hug all while keeping her eyes on me. "Maybe because he has the token now, Daddy will come back from his trip _quicker_."

"Really?!" Pat exclaims, his eyes darting from her to me. I clutch the stone, exhaling deeply as I nod in the affirmative. "Of course, little buddy. Daddy will be home lickety-split!"

* * *

 ** _Alana Oskoii, 58_**  
 ** _District 8 Female_**

* * *

"I can't believe this is happening..." Darcelle deadpans.

I respond by exhaling, pulling my daughter closer to me as we swing idly on the hammock. Marcel, just like his father, tends to stand when dealing with stress. His hands on the hips of his trousers, he paces to and fro, pausing sometimes to take in the cityscape of the Capitol. Like his father, he too was brown to outbursts when left to simmer.

"Marcel, please sit down." I beseech, eyeing him with concern. "You're scaring me."

He spins on his feet, his hands splayed out in a sarcastic 'ta-da!' motion. " _Good_ , you _should_ be scared – upset even! More than you are _now_!" he trills with a faux smile on his face. "How could they do this?! Like... _COME ON!"_

The Oskoii family wasn't exactly a loyal one...But at this point, who are we kidding? _"You were selected, let's not be coy."_

"Marcel!" I bark, glancing around the rooftop to see if any eyes caught his outburst. The young woman from Four and her partner glance upward but quickly lay back down. I point to the empty spot beside me "Sit _down_ I said. This isn't the place to get angry."

He listens, biting his lip as he stomps over and flings himself onto the hammock with an exasperated sigh. As he runs his hands through his hair, I gently pat his knee and then move to his shoulder and hair. It works, as Marcel reclines further into the hammock, placing his hands on his thighs.

"This is reality, Marcel." I soothe. All we can do is let the chips fall where they may."

"You can't blame him." Darcelle mutters quietly. With her hands, she gestures haphazardly in anger. "It isn't fair that they're throwing the districts' best away... and for _what?"_

"I wonder what people made about the speeches tonight – especially yours." Marcel snorts. He glances over the railing, down toward the amassed crowds in the city circle watching Games footage. "They _should_ light a fire under everyone's asses."

"Your interview was amazing, Mom." Darcelle says, gripping my bicep. "If I felt your anger, the nation probably felt the same way too."

"I was just stating the truth about the situation. What people do is up to them." I answer. I agree wholeheartedly with their sentiments, but the situation is out of my hands. All we can do is hope that my words and the words of others will spark a push for change.

The three of us stir when the voice of Ayn, my agent, rings out from the elevators. Tipping her tinted, cat-eye glasses to spy us, she smiles brightly, zipping over to us with one of the lawyers in tote. "Hi. Hi Marcel, Hi Darcelle, _Alana_." She coos, kissing each of us on the cheek along with a giant hug for me. "Babe, you did so good out there, _so good!_ "

I caress her back. "Thank you, Ayn."

"This whole thing is a _godsforsaken_ tragedy!" she bleats into my ear in a sing-song tone. Ayn then pulls back, caressing my shoulders with a rueful smirk on her lips. "But _you_ will get the last laugh for sure! As well as your supporters nationwide."

"How so?" I ask my peculiar agent. Her grin spreads from ear to ear. You'd think she was Marceline with that type of smile. "Well, remember our talks with Lynx?"

I remember. A few days before Reaping Day and the day I arrived at the Capitol. Lynx equals movies and shows...which means... " _No way.._."

"That's right baby, When Songbirds Cry – _the movie version_!" Ayn squeals. The announcement certainly sucked some of the sadness out of the air, as my children and I immediately exchange shocked expressions. Darcelle immediately latches onto me, almost causing us to topple over.

" _Congratulations,_ Mom." She cheers. I smile at her, the both of us turning our attention back to Ayn as she clears her throat. "Now of course, there are some things we need to hash out..." Ayn continues, her happy-go-lucky features faltering. "You know, _just in case_..."

I sigh, nodding as we begin to gather around the table set before the hammock. "Of course."

Ayn begins to tell me of this project, which was immediately green lit upon my reaping...I'm not sure if that's a coincidence or not.

"My children retain the rights to my property, correct?" I inquire, my eyes falling on the lawyer who records the entire affair. The last thing I want is my work being perverted by some greedy Capitolite.

Like a bobblehead, Ayn nods rapidly. "Oh yes, _of course_! I'll be around to consult...If it turns out that way of course."

The more information divulged about this tremendous project, the wider the smile on my face gets and the harder I grip the hands of my children. If everything goes well, my children's children will be set for their _entire lives_. No reapings, no welfare...

"And now," Ayn breathes, retrieving a pen from her purse and handing it to me. "To seal the deal, you must sign. I assure you, that this will be the best piece of paper that you ever signed in your entire life."

I sigh, fiddling with the sleek utensil in my hand. One glance at the warm smiles my children display is enough for me to seal the deal and sign the document allowing Panemians to learn something rather than propaganda drivel.

"That _settles_ it." Ayn chimes with a gentle clap of the hand. I pump the hand of the lawyer and when I move to shake her hand, I'm taken aback as she pulls me into a hug, something I immediately reciprocate. I was thankful for her. She's extremely imaginative and hyper...but she's always been there for me, especially now.

* * *

 _ **Russett Gilmour, 29**_  
 _ **District 8 Male**_

* * *

"Clarisse, stop crying... _please."_ I plead, peppering the side of her face with kisses. "The stress isn't good for you _or_ Markie."

Kissing her, holding her close, pleading _over and over,_ nothing stops the low sobs that wrack her body. Who could blame her? The reaping was nothing short of a disaster. What the hell was a pregnant seamstress with one toddler already going to do without a husband? I glance over at Gem, who remains asleep on the couch – thank god. She's still too young to fully comprehend, which was a blessing and curse at the same time. This ordeal would be all but forgotten by her...Maybe even me along with it – besides archival footage. My heart soars when her sobs lighten to sniffles.

"There you go... _Hush_..." I console. "I know things are bad right now..."

I nearly jump when her hands capture my wrists. Her tear-ridden eyes were frantic as if she'd seen a demon.

"Bad Russ? Things are ' _bad'_? Things right now are _horrible."_ She shivers. Her expression morphs into one of a grimace as her hands clutch her midsection. I place one hand on her back, another over her distended stomach where Markie lies.

"See? I _know Clarisse, I know_. But _you_ matter too!" I point out. In any issue, I just try to find a loophole to get to the best outcome. There's no use getting upset, even though you have all rights to do so. "Gen and Markie will be even worse off with both parents out of the picture. So please, just...try to relax."

I couldn't help but wonder that if I was gone _for real,_ how would she be then? She's a smart woman, but grief could throw anyone out of whack.

"I...I...I _can't_." she whines breathlessly.

I kiss her temple. "I prefer you like _this_ than how you were seconds ago."

Dejected, her eyes remain glued to the floor. "What are we going to do...?"

" _I'm_ going to try to find my way out of this." I reply, caressing her shoulders. " _You_ are gonna continue being a swell mom to Gen and then Markie when he gets here. You and I both know what it's like to not have active parents...Let's not continue the trend, ok?"

I collect a tissue, padding down her tears for her. "But...The money...The..."

"Don't worry about that right now. When I get back, you won't even have to utter anything about money ever again."

...If push comes to shove, the recent weeks following the factory accident have shown us that people can be good. Gilroy has always been good to the family, you can't forget Gilroy. The thought of Clarisse taking charity bothers me...But it is what it is, if it means Gen and Markie growing up properly unlike so many kids I've seen over the years.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts when Clarisse grips my wrist again.

"Be the Russett that was in the fire." She tells me, as if she's having a moment of clarity through the sadness. "Be _brave_ , be _calm_ , _think_ things through... _You could do this_."

We exchange a kiss, as she shuffles even closer to me, laying her full weight on my shoulder by laying her head on it. My chin rests on her cheek. If I could survive a freak accident like a factory explosion, then a Hunger Games shouldn't be too different.

I nod, pressing one more kiss onto the crown of her head. "Of course I will...and I _know_ I can."

* * *

 _ **Hermia Rhodes, 52**_  
 _ **District 9 Female**_

* * *

"So you aren't _mad_ or anything?" I ask my elder siblings.

It was a stupid question, but I was still bewildered as to why they decided to come here and see me off. I receive my answer in the form of frowns and shaking of heads.

" _Of course_ not!" Hurst says while he waves a hand dismissively towards me.

"Why would we come here if we were?" adds Monica.

Adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, Gareth shrugs. "You chose one path...We chose another."

"What did you choose?" I ask with a quirked brow. As soon as Katniss' victory tour in Two ended, I linked up with people who I knew held the Capitol in contempt when words turned into action, I packed a back and made way to the nearest cell without saying a word of goodbye. The Rhodes family was unlike those who lived in the cities – militaristic and patriotic. Still, I imagine they had passive loyalty to the Capitol, enough to take up arms if asked.

Hurst sips his coffee. "We kept tilling the quarries. At least then we weren't picking an inherent side." He answers, prompting Gareth to nod.

"I joined the Militia as a medic...It paid, _lots."_ Monica said, shrugging _. "_ I never left the district."

"Huh..." I muse. "And here I thought you were a bunch of _bootlickers_..."

This earns a round of laughter from the four of us. This was good. It was like old times back home, whenever we had time to come together as a family. Light conversation with a few jokes in between. All these years wondering if I should send them a letter or call...I _could've._ No use worrying about what-if's now. They came. I've seen them. That's all that matters.

"How are you, though?" Hurst bellows, slugging my shoulder. "Hermia Rhodes – _brewer extraordinaire. Who would've thought that?!_ "

"When in a district make like they do?" I offer sheepishly with a shrug. "It was better than being a harvester..."

"How's business?" asks Gareth, coming down from his warm chuckle.

"The brewery is going along pretty well." Felicity pipes up, prompting all of us to turn to her. "Tons of people coming and going always...Even more now that mom is here..."

"Is that so?" I wonder, eyes wide with surprise. I make of motion of caressing a money bill. " _Well then_ , at least _something_ good came out of this."

They giggle, except Esther of course remains for understandable reasons. She wears her usual brooding expression, prodding her food with a fork as if she were thirteen rather than twenty-five. Like night and day, Felicity was as happy as can be when we met in the lobby while I had to forcefully greet her.

"Esther...?" I begin cautiously, watching as her eyes dart my way. I begin to regret asking already. "How have things been?"

"Not well, considering that my mother is being _killed off_ for no apparent reason." She grumbles, skewering a piece of broccoli with her fork and jabbing it into her mouth. "As if spending some months in a prison camp while _pregnant_ wasn't enough for them..."

I glance around the room, glad that everyone was gone barring the Avoxes who I doubt will say a word. I offer a weak smile toward my siblings, who seem perplexed. Felicity seems worried, but I shake my head. It's best to let her let it out, lest she does something else to vent her anger. It's best to just get to the point always.

"At least you're in cahoots with that Twelve girl." Esther snorts, jabbing her fork toward me. "Now _she's_ the only good thing to come out of this...thing. _Her_ and the _riots_ supposedly going on..."

"How is it in Nine...regarding that?" I ask Felicity. A prisoner and an average small business owner isn't much to fret about, unlike other districts that are losing significant people.

"Solidarity protests regarding the factory explosion in Eight." Felicity answers. "They say that they aren't getting a fair shake in the mills either."

"Two is well... _Two_." Monica adds.

"Yea, because we _aren't_." Felicity snorts, rolling her eyes as she jabs her fork toward Monica. "Lapdogs _always_ get the best treats." She leans in toward me, her eyes scanning the room cautiously. "So...What do you guys have in mind to turn the Games topsy-turvy? I knew you couldn't voice your true opinion on Marceline's show..."

I offer Marcia an apologetic smile, turning back to Esther as I shake my head. " _That was_ my true opinion. I'm not doing _anything_ , and you aren't _either_."

Her eyes squint. " _What?!_ "

I turn to her twin. "Felicity, _take care_ of your sister. You already lost a father and you may lose your _mother_ if you aren't careful."

Esther glares at me as if I'd burned her house down. "Can't you _see_ that–"

I raise a hand toward her. " _Esther_ , I am in this to _win it._ No one's thrown in the towel yet?" I explain. "Like you've said, I've spent _months_ trying to keep your safe _before_ you were even born and continue to do so up until this _current second_. My world was turned upside down following the War yet here I am. What makes you think it's all over now?"

Tobi said it best. All one needs to do is have a head more leveled that the rest of your competition, age be dammed.

Reclined against her chair, Esther scans the room with tired eyes before shooting out of her seat.

"I'll be on the rooftop." She announces tersely, briskly making her way toward the elevators.

Gareth lets out a low whistle. "She's you to a tee, Herm..."

"Will she be okay?" asks Monica.

"She'll be fine..." I reply. When the elevator door closes, I glance toward her sister. "Right Felicity?"

Felicity nods. "Yup, of course."

Nodding back, I fold my hands in front of me and sigh, hopping that her father's sense of compassion shines through...Though I _highly_ doubt it.

* * *

 _ **Lars Malatic, 36**_  
 _ **District 9 Male**_

* * *

"I can't believe it..." Benji says aloud, perplexed. "You're _actually_ doing it and doing it _well_."

"No shaving your head...No making you walk in shackles..." Ellie says, emphasizing her words by counting off each method.

Benji shook his head, snickering. "You'd expect them to do something fucked up to you, but they _didn't_."

" _Hell_. They let us come _here_?" says Ellie.

Benji shrugs. " _Well_ , we _did_ make ourselves known when we came to say goodbye."

Frowning, Ellie nods. "...That's fair."

On the balcony, we watch on a jumboscreen down on the Avenue of Tributes as a _Capitol News_ reporter interviews Elizabeth about none other than me. When my face shows up on screen, a recap of my interview with Marceline, the crowd goes _wild_. They aren't _wrong_. A million things could've gone wrong with my volunteering yet here I am. I'm constantly prepared only for the worst to happen, yet it _hasn't._

"All praise is due unto Poindexter over 'ere." I say, slapping the back of Micah, who's remained silent ever since we got up here. Maybe the size of the city is too much for him to comprehend. We are a long way from Bismarck after all. Ellie and Benji praise him too, earning a hug from her and a ruffle of the hair from him while he blushes like a beet.

"Your training score is _impeccable_ , the people _like you..._ " Micah looks away from the lights of the city and turns his eyes to me as he grins. "You're on _quite_ the luck streak, Lars."

I lean onto the balcony railing, watching the crowd below as they cheer on footage of the Seventy-Sixth Games. "Yeah? Well, here's hopin' it _sticks.._."

I _never_ was a believer in luck. Why bother when life has been nothing but a _giant open ladder_ ever since I was born? I've been dealt _shitty_ hand after _shitty_ hand and now that things are gradually turning around, I nearly can't believe it, especially with it coming in the form of the Hunger Games.

"Something tells me it might..." Benji links my arm with his, joining me as he hunches over the railing. He beckons for my hand, and I give it to him, I extending it forward with a flat palm. I watch as he plops a gold trinket – a star perhaps – linked on a gold chain.

"It was my mother's anklet. You could put it on your wrist _or_ your ankle. I did both to be honest." Benji explains with a weary chuckle. "I'd like to say it kept me safe during my many runs. Maybe it could help you, too."

I do vividly remember our first days of meeting one another, the brief glint the trinket often gave off.

We exchange a quick kiss. Though it's been a week since the last, given everything that's been going on a week mise well be a _decade._ It felt...different, but a _good_ different. "It's perfect, Benj. Thanks."

Ellie swaps spots with Micah as she places a warm hand over my back. "Things may've been bad, Lars," she begins, gently rubbing. "But you were and are the type of man who never gives up while he's down. The prison and _this_ are a perfect example of that..."

"There will be a lot of times where you might _want_ to stay down..." Micah adds, his voice tinged with warning.

" _Hell_ , there were plenty of times _outside_ the arena where you wanted to stay down I bet." Ellie continues, her hand finding its home on my shoulder as she grips it gently. "But _don't_ give up. Try your damndest. Try for _you_ more than anybody."

"'Course, Ellie..." I nod, gripping Benji's anklet firmly. "It's not every day a prisoner leaves the confines of his cell to volunteer for his freedom, y'know."

It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, an opportunity that I – _who can safely say has never had a one_ – was going to take and see through to the best of my ability.

* * *

 ** _Laelia Alvarado, 19_**  
 ** _District 10 Female_**

* * *

I _enjoy_ being the ray of sunshine in a room. It's helped a lot every now and then. But now...I don't have it in me to _'fake it till I make it'_.

From when we had our reunion in the lobby, right up until we made our way to the living room, Mama clings me to her as if I were a little babe again, pulling me into her chest, smoothing down my hair, while murmuring sweet nothings into my ear over and over. It _was_ comforting – it was my Mama doing this after all – but it was also _uncomfortable_ at the same time. My body was heating up – a side effect from her anxiety as well as mine, and the side of my face was damp from her tears. It was _suffocating_.

"Oh mi cielo...I'm so, so, so sorry." She bawls all while thumbing away _my tears._ "This is all our fault...I...I...I _don't know_..."

I free myself from her grasp, sighing as more air fills my lungs. Caressing her hands within mine, I gently shush her. This gets her to quiet down, finally.

"It's okay, Mama, Papa." I look past her toward him, as he stands nervously by with a cigarette in hand. Joy and Aurumn are beyond distressed as the both of them share a loveseat with tired expressions on their faces. "You did the best you could, which was _more than enough._ You _can't_ change the past."

As far as I was concerned, I am a District 10 female who had bad luck because of my family name. There were plenty of tributes who have had similar experiences as mine. If this Quell wasn't announced, I would be free right now graduating high school and moving on with life...Mama and Papa did what they were supposed to do.

"How am I supposed to _live_ with myself after this!?" Mama shrieks, her expression perplexed. Joy begins patting tears down while Aurumn rubs his back. Extinguishing his cigarette, Papa begins to stomp toward her, but he immediately halts in place as he tugs at his once immaculate blond hair.

" _Gloria_ , don't say such things!" Papa snaps. Sighing sharply, he shuffles toward the liquor cabinet, fumbles with a bottle and pours its contents into a tumbler.

"Mama, _don't_ say that..." I chide, pulling her back in for another hug. "You, Papa, Joy and Aurumn have to _take care_ of each other."

"But..." Mama babbles breathlessly. I clutch her cheeks with my hands.

"But _nothing_ ," I object, using one finger to point sternly at her. She used to do the same thing to me once upon a time...How the tables have changed. "I've been doing fairly okay since I got here...I've a decent score and some allies too. There's a good chance for me." I say, glancing around the room for assurance I suppose. Their reactions are lukewarm at best.

I'm always the one that believes in and hopes for the best to happen. I always try to put my best foot forward. But now...I think I'm bound to fail very soon.

* * *

 _ **Emmanuel Cade, 22**_  
 _ **District 10 Male**_

* * *

 _In beauty I walk  
_ _  
 _With beauty before me I walk  
_  
 _With beauty behind me I walk  
_  
 _With beauty above me I walk  
_  
 _With beauty around me I walk  
_  
 _It has become beauty again  
_  
 _It has become beauty again  
_  
 _It has become beauty again  
_  
 _It has become beauty again__

Me, Mom, Dad, Nate, Roseanna, Tara and Demaris all chant this in unison – _The Beauty Way_ – a traditional prayer of our people. When it pertains to crises such as these, I imagine that they have been doing this since the evening I left for the Capitol. Tara beats the water-drum while Demaris shakes the gourd-rattle. Séance burns in a miniature fire maintained in a woven basket brought from home, creating a thick smoke. The prayer serves as a reminder, really, a reminder that we as humans are constantly straddling the line of sickness and health, goodness and evil, sadness or happiness. _Hózhó_ – harmony _or_ balance – according to our philosophy, must be achieved and retained to lead a righteous and plentiful life.

It's a grounding gesture, nothing more. In _my_ specific case, I've been unbalanced _even_ _before_ Harriet pulled the lever that landed on my name. What, with Jamison's _constant_ harassment of us on top of having to _constantly_ fight to maintain a modest living.

If anything, these Games will bring _nothing_ _but_ unbalance, perhaps for the _rest of my life_.

When we finish, Dad sings a healing song in Navajo. It's commendable that he retains such knowledge, in our native tongue nonetheless. From my acute knowledge of our language, he mentions 'protection' and 'strength', a far more valuable gesture in my humble opinion.

"May the winds be gentle upon your face, and your direction be straight and true as the flight of the eagle, my son." He says, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I nod. "Ahéhee, Father." _Thank you._ I accept a hug from Shimá - Mother – who literally trembles in my grasp. Still clung to me for support, she turns to Ten's escort, Harriet Blakely, who stands idly by with a look of curiosity and shyness. Hands clasped casually behind her back, Harriet offers a strained grin.

She's a peculiar one, Harriet, being so unlike many of her others. I can safely say that even though she was the signer of my death warrant, she's the only Capitolite I could tolerate. 'Like' seems to easy of a word to throw around, especially toward a denizen of this city and especially someone who participates in this farce personally.

"Thank you, Ms. Blakely for allowing us to use this space for our ceremony..." Mother says, shakily. The main rooftop of the Training Center was far too occupied for the ceremony to take place. So, after chatting with the Peacekeepers, Harriet allowed us to use the adjacent rooftop on the west tower.

"It is no problem, Mrs. Cade!" the escort chimes with a hesitant laugh. "Thank you for allowing the opportunity for me to witness it. Emmanuel will perform very well, I imagine."

I frown. From tying my hair, to allowing us to perform our customs, I'm confused as to why she does this. After twenty-two years of being figuratively kicked down by pale-faced people – especially those with bizarre accents – I find her kindness alien.

"Why do you _do_ this...?" Nathaniel asks, confused while rising from off the floor. "Clearly a person of your temperament and knowledge could be used elsewhere?"

" _Why not_ be an escort?" she shrugs, her voice faltering. "I mean, I do understand Ten's culture through and through, so it works out in the end..."

I frown. It's a weak answer. I still want to know _more_ about Ms. Blakely. Nate does too, but a dismissive wave from Father stops him from pressing.

"Quit badgering the woman, Nate." Father sighs. "The young woman seems content and fine where she is."

"If anything, they need _more_ escorts like her..." Roseanna agrees, grimacing at her wording before I catch her muttering "...Better yet, no ' _escorts'_ or ' _Games'_ _at all_."

Tara and Demaris greet me next, the latter's hand opening up to reveal a necklace. It was nicely beaded and the trinket connected to it is a miniature woven basket with its own neat design. Accepting it as I place it over my head, I can't help but think about how long this must've taken to sit down and create.

"Usually, we would've...made baskets for the ceremony..." Tara croaks in a wobbly voice.

"But we didn't have enough time..." Demaris adds, albeit more strongly. She sighs sharply, closing her eyes as she inhales and exhales. When she opens them up again, the tears stream down. "...So we made that for you to take with you."

"Thank you so much." I breathe, gathering them up in an embrace so deep I don't remember _ever_ giving them one this hard before. When we part, I look at their broken faces, alongside those of my parents and my elder siblings and think back to the kiosk and the hateful looks we endured day in and day out. It made me wonder how in the _hell_ were they going to take on Jamison if I don't come back? "...You guys have to be strong, no matter _what_ happens." I press. "Promise me?"

They both nod in unison. Tara's full on crying now, using her hand to stave off the free flowing tears. Demaris has the sniffles. If Jamison or his thugs ever got their hands on either of them...I don't even want to _fathom_ the thought. "Mother, Father you _must_ look out for them. Nate, Roseanna...I know you have families now, but _please_ ," I gesture to the four of them. "Keep them _close_. No one else will."

"While we do that, you mind _yourself_ as well." Roseanna replies.

I nod. "I have, and I _will_."

What do I have to lose? Reputation...Just look at my culture and skin...Dignity, I've lost that to Jamison and his goons. I'll be damned if I didn't try to make it back to the only thing that ever mattered to me – _them_.

* * *

 _ **Wond'ra Okafor, 30**_  
 _ **District 11 Female**_

* * *

This changes absolutely nothing.

Arms folded while crossing one leg over the other, I attempt to stare into space, ignoring the stupid small talk that Dad, Jeremiah and Miles make to attempt to cover up for the absence of my voice – the main reason why they traveled _a day and a quarter_ to get here to hear. While everyone sprinted across the length of the lobby to greet their loved ones I simply walked over to them, allowing myself to be hugged – but not returning the favor – remaining as quiet as a church mouse until we reached our floor and found ourselves in the living room.

Allowing my hands to drift toward my midsection, I replay Marceline's words from earlier this evening.

 _"Your father says due to your injuries, you've been a little...irate."_

 _"I could imagine why one would be fairly upset...Especially with you losing the baby and all."_

I take a sharp breath inward in an attempt to stifle the sickness coming on. I've been like this for days, but hearing those words in my head brings it up something fierce. I had a _baby_ and lost it all because he kept on pushing and I kept on _taking_ it.

He touches my knee now, the only form of affection I can remember him giving me in ages. It takes all the restraint I can muster to not fight him off. "Wondr'a...Wondr'a, talk to me _please_?" he pleads.

"You held out on me." I spit bitterly.

" _Wondr'a_...Your condition was _too fragile._ " He explains, sighing and caressing his temples as if I'm stupid for being upset.

"That wasn't your..." I swallow, attempting to power through the brain fog once more. Anger makes it worse I think. "..Call, you ain't got _no right, none_!"

That was my baby, something that I could've called mine. My job with Eleven's government wasn't mine, neither was the high education, or my sham marriage. Those were all my father's doing. I wish Momma was still around. I remember her as clear as the day. Spirit as free as a bird, long walks in the forest, tiling gardens together...

"Wondr'a...Do you _honestly think_ you'd be able to take it if he'd told you first thing?" Miles reasons. "Be _reasonable_. Dad was just lookin' out for you."

"You _shut your mouth._ " I seethe, leaning my body toward him for extra emphasis. Jeremiah wasn't spared from my glare either. Both of them were just like Dad, always pushing, always supporting his controlling ways.

"Wondr'a, _don't say that_." Dad hisses sharply. "You can't just be so dismissive right when..."

"Would you like some more to eat, Mr. Okafor?" Octavia chirps, teetering over to the living room with an Avox carrying a platter right behind her.

He puts a smile over his frown. "Sure, thank you Octavia. I suppose you can just leave it on the table."

The Avox does just that. And as if nothing just happened the three of them dig into the plate. No apologies about working me like a nag or last minute thoughts about our relationships together. I don't know if it was because of their behavior or the heavy scent of the food, but I immediately rise from out of the loveseat, make my way to the bathroom and empty my stomach of its contents.

When I do return sometime later, I find an envelope on the loveseat.

"Otel wrote that for you." Dad comments as I study it in my hands. "He must be thanking you for taking care of Gloria among other things."

"A lot of people were thankful for you." Miles adds. "It makes you wonder why someone would just volunteer out of the blue like that..."

The anger wells in my chest, but I let it simmer, opting to level my breathing instead. That always works. "They're thankful for _all the wrong reasons_ and you _know_ that."

Before any of them could reply, I transition from the living room to the balcony outside, slamming the sliding door so hard I had to turn around because I thought I'd cracked the glass. I turn back to the neon lights of the city. It was relieving, the cool May air of the Capitol against the discomfort from both the room and men that occupied it. My head was still foggy as per usual, but I had a better chance of breaking through it out here than in there. Quickly but carefully, I tear into the envelope, revealing Otel's fairly neat handwriting.

 _Dear Wondr'a, my mighty fine Wondr'a,_

 _You know I ain't much for bookwork, but I pushed through all that to write this, for you. Take this with you into the arena, knowin' that you take up a space in this heart of mine regardless of what happens..._

Carefully, with a fluttering heart, I read all three pages of his letter where he details everything from his love of my _"personality compared to no other"_ and _"Seeing you with Gloria seems so natural, I almost forget about Nadine sometimes"_. _"I can't stop thinkin' 'bout you, it's unreal. Your touch, your smell, your lips, our intimacy, it's all made a million times better because it's you, a free loving spirit. It makes my extremely sad knowin' you have a chance of dyin' in that arena, knowin' that I'll never experience such feelin's ever again."_

Once finished, I clutch the letter close with closed eyes. If there was one thing I regret, it's leaving Otel and Gloria. Most folks would take one look at us and call me baffling, but I don't care, Otel Sharps was the only man in all my years of living who _understood_ me.

"Wondr'a..." Paisley calls, closing the door behind her. "I've spoken to your dad, told me everything about you."

I don't answer, instead choosing to stare out into the city and its many lights.

"Wondr'a, we need you or Linden back or 11 is gonna implode." She begs. "People back home are lookin' to you and if you don't try, they'll be _very upset._ You know how Elevener's get when they're upset."

"Why?" I drawl lamely. "They don't want me for me, Ms. Paisley..."

"What do you mean? What about all your neighbors, the people who lined up to say goodbye?"

I shake my head. There'll be other people who make food or clothing or whatever they need. She sighs sharply, guiding me to a chair before sitting herself. "Listen, like it or not, I'm going to teach you the remainder of all I know to be true to survivin' in that arena. 'Least then, I can say I still tried."

She talks _at_ me, not to me, because I can care less. This changes _absolutely_ nothing.

* * *

 _ **Linden Norton, 40**_  
 _ **District 11 Male**_

* * *

"How are Momma, Dad and Ronnie doing?" I ask, frowning when Delia doesn't raise her head from her stew.

"They opted to stay but send their love in the form of this letter." Salas answers just as fast as I asked, sliding the stationary over to me in the form of an envelope. "They said there were too many people."

"I see..." I reply, maintaining a watchful eye on Delia, who still hasn't looked at me since we've gotten here. I wasn't about to just up and leave without setting the story straight. She deserved that much. "Kids, do ya'll mind taking your food into my room? There's HV, a balcony and everything in there."

Besides a weary glance, the three of them leave without a word, leaving their mother and me to continue eating in silence. It's all starting to hit me now...The lying, the cheating...The constant anger toward them – toward Delia...It hurt them a lot more than it hurt me.

I gaze toward her again. "Delia..."

"The only thing I'm grateful for regarding this trip is the fact that I ain't home while Marceline's utterances were being spoken about..." Delia begins, cutting me off with a leveled voice. It was the type of voice that serves as a precursor to full out yelling. "At least then, I wouldn't have to immediately face our friends and family." She glances up at me finally, her face filled with scorn. "I don't usually care about what people think, but that...that's something that sticks with you."

"Delia...I'm sorry..."

" _Sorry doesn't cut it._ " She bites, striking the table hard, hard enough to make me flinch. She wanted to yell it, but the Okafor's served as buffer, judging by how often Delia glances toward them consciously. "You made me look like a fool out there in front of all them people n' the country." She huffs. "That's why you're hitting up on me, on Jarlan – _especially Jarlan!_?" I say nothing. She was right after all, there was nothing to refute. I brave the wave of nausea that hits me like a warm wind, maintaining eye contact with her. "Who in the hell Dan Arnett, where did this come from, is our marriage built on a _lie_?"

"...That's a fair take on it." I nod sadly, ignoring as her face darkens with anger. "We live in _District 11_ Delia...You _can't_ be yourself there. Tradition is everything and _god help you_ if you buck tradition...especially in the way I do. Dan was an old time friend...I've _always_ had intimate feelings for him and others like him but I kept it down...You've seen what happens. I was stuck, what could I do but adapt? Clearly I haven't adapted well, seeing how I've treated you. But you don't have to worry anymore do you?" Delia remains quiet. Inwardly, I'm happy that her anger seems to have subsided a tad. "Delia... _I'm sorry._ It may not mean shit to you, but I _really_ am."

As I adjust myself in my seat, I almost find myself fainting. My clothes constrict me and room feels so muggy for some reason.

"What you're feeling there is the weight being lifted off your shoulders." Delia comments eyeing me with caution as she rises from her seat and begins to make her way to my bedroom. "This is too much for me at the moment. Maybe we can talk when the kids retire..."

"Wait, Delia?" I call after her, elated when she listens and turns around. "Could you send Salas out?"

Salas – our eldest – returns to the table not long after. When it comes to him and I, there's always apprehension on his part. This time, I see only calmness on his face, some sadness, as he takes a seat beside me.

"That was quite the revelation by Marceline..." he says. Not in a gloating way, but as a normal utterance.

"Yeah..." I reply wearily, coughing to stifle my embarrassment. "Do me a favor and don't follow after your father's footsteps. You already are. You always were the anti-me, I disliked that part of you, but maybe it's a good thing that the kids aren't the same as the parent, you know?"

"It was a response to how you were acting." Salas explains. "I do love you dad. I just wanted to let you know that, you know, before what may come next. You try your darndest..."

"I will." I nod, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Take care of your mom and siblings, okay? Just in case..."

I call for Ace next – the handful since birth – who seems more distressed than Salas was. She sits down, arms folded and her gaze anywhere but toward me. Typical Ace fashion right there.

"How are you, Ace?" I ask as warmly as possible.

She grunts her elbows twitching as she shrugs. "Could be better."

"You threw your own little curveball into my interview there." I say lamely. "Thanks for that."

Her lips quirk a little as she tilts her head. "I'm not the one to sugarcoat." She says. It's not like she was wrong. 'Volatile' could mean a lot of things and I doubt people cared much about my specific interview.

"Listen Ace, darling...I love you. Even though you're as ornery as a hog, I love you for it anyway."

Her hands no longer crossed, she runs a hand through her cropped, curly hair. "I wish that things were different...This is just a shitty way to end things."

They could've been, if I were honest with myself. "I agree."

Not long after Ace comes Jarlan. Where his elder siblings were composed, he just wasn't. He sniffled his way onto his seat, attempting to wipe away the tears to no avail. I reach out to touch him, but he reels away, startled. I quickly retract my hand, knowing full well that touch between he and I was mostly out of anger than love, the attempt to beat out his identity.

I just get on with it. "I'm sorry Jarlan. I just wanted to let you know that before tomorrow. I did what I did because I didn't want you to get hurt – but obviously you were hurt in other ways. If you want to live life a certain way, please, go for it. At least you get to live your truth...unlike me, as you've seen..."

I'm surprised when he rises from his seat and embraces me.

"I'll hold on to this moment over any of the others." He breathes, releasing me. "I love you, dad."

"I love you too...Jarlan." 'Son' doesn't really apply, now does it? I glance at the flower placed neatly in his curly hair. "That's a purty flower you got there..."

* * *

 _ **Veradisia Smith, 19**_  
 _ **District 12 Female**_

* * *

"It seems you've taken many people by surprise, Vera." Comments Father as he grins from ear to ear.

He and I are situated in the living room of Twelve's suite, watching the final recaps for this year's Games. Regardless of the in my opinion, shaky interview with Marceline, I still remain in the public's good graces. My odds, popularity and even placement are in a healthy range. Not that I necessarily care about these. As long as these _stupid, stupid_ people remain hooked to their daily programming, half my task is _already complete_. I wonder how those _idiot Peacekeepers_ are faring right now, the ones who mocked my volunteering as they escorted me to the parlor.

"They should prepare for more then." I jokingly snip back with a beaming smile. I want to talk further than just 'wink-wink, nudge-nudge' idioms. For example, I want to know more about how the districts are reacting to everything that's going on, or how the Capitol allowed him back into the city and about how I saw Ricardo being mercilessly beaten by Peacekeepers. Instead, I opt to keep my mouth shut about such musings. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. It's what will keep me alive in the long run. I could only imagine how bugged this place must be. I fear if I do state my true feelings and intentions, I'll be scraped off my pedestal tomorrow. "They seem weary of me." I say to Father, emphasizing the 'weary' portion.

Father seems to understand, as he nods deeply and fixes me as fierce gaze. "Well, they need to forget about the past and focus on the now. You volunteered because you wanted to benefit District 12 and Panem. It's a noble cause if you ask me. Nobody else this year could fill such a role."

"Thank you, Father."

He would be here by my side too...But then what of Chan? If she's distraught now over me, the both of us going in would be utter misery...My hands find themselves caressing the locket he gave me. Out of habit, I glance across the room towards Channery, who gazes right back at me. She sits at the kitchen table, in front of Ainsely who remains obscured by the chair. The blank expression on her face needs little translation, as I rise out of my seat and make my way over to them.

"Channery is enchanting, isn't she?" I say aloud, stopping beside my 'mentor'. "She's the more approachable twin, for sure."

Ainsley glances up from her seat, that forlorn expression forever on her face. "Yes, she's very interesting."

I grin politely at her. Part of me wants to be cross with her, seeing as my journey through the Capitol has mostly been self-taught, with little tidbits from Francine. Though I can't exactly blame her for her weakness, as she alone has to shoulder the weight of Twelve's blighted reputation. "Do you mind if I borrow Chan for a moment?"

She glances from Chan to me. "Oh...Yeah sure, she's your sister after all."

"Thank you." I reply. One glance and the slight shift of the head backward is enough for Chan to rise off of her chair and follow me towards the balcony. "Were things getting a little too much?" I ask her as she closes the sliding door behind her.

"Sort of, she was quizzing me over your volunteering." She replies, taking her spot right beside me, so close that were rubbing shoulders. "Something I still barely know myself."

I know that tone from anywhere, anger and confusion. I opt to help by linking arms with her, something she seems to welcome. "Come on Chan, you've watched the interviews, you heard me at the goodbyes. I want to be a _significant victor_. And if you ask me, things are going _swimmingly_ so far."

"How close do you think you'll get to achieve that goal?" she asks.

"If I play my pieces right, fairly." I answer her with an incline of the head. "As you already know, I've garnered a stable alliance."

Besides Ricardo, who knows of my intentions, they serve mostly as a buffer against say, the Careers. Though I've been quite fortunate this year, everyone besides the Careers has been rather nice – any of them could've been acceptable allies. Still, I wasn't lying when I said I had chosen people with 'like-minds'. Maybe if we get that far, I could inform them of my intentions, appeal to that dormant spirit of rebellion they left behind twenty-odd years ago. Though after tonight, it's best to just play the Capitol's game as intended. It's rude to view them as chattel, but my goal is bigger than all of theirs and I'm willing to do anything to attain said goal.

Woo'd the Capitol – done. The districts? Perhaps. Now, I move on to the strenuous part.

* * *

 _ **Kavirayah Parathi, 29  
District 12 Male**_

* * *

This was good enough.

Mindlessly, I scan the laser pointer along the length of the floor, watching as Varendra pounces and paws at the blue dot wherever it may appear. Mary, his temporary guardian, laughs at the show in front of her. When we were surprised in the lobby with the appearances of our families, my heart sank knowing that I had no 'family' remaining, knowing that I promptly dismissed mine a few weeks prior to my reaping. But when Mary called my name, waving to me with a carrier in hand, I couldn't help but join the scene of hugs, crying and laughter. But still...

"Why you?" I ask Mary, taking a seat on the bench as I call V. The grey tabby listens, hopping onto my lap and settling in with ease. "How did you..."

"I guess because they left town, they didn't ask your 'mother'. So, when the officials came into the office and asked for any friends or relatives, _everyone_ pointed to me!" she replies. "And I said sure why not, because I'm your neighbor and a darn good one at that. And you can't forget that you still have V here, and you would've _loved_ that...So, here I am!"

I hum in acknowledgement. No one, especially in _District 12_ of all places, cares about each other. So, why should _I_ carry the same courtesy back? Mary on the other hand, regardless of how annoying she I – no she's not annoying, she just... _cares_ , even if her way of showing it is a bit much. If she didn't care, she wouldn't have taken V in for me or even come from the other end of Panem just to see me off.

"Thank you _very much,_ Mary." I gulp, pausing to reflect about when the last time I had ever uttered those words to someone besides Mayor Simms, who was my subordinate. "I really appreciate it."

I'm surprised when she links arms with me, scooting so close that were thigh to thigh. "Oh gee, it's okay Kavi..." she frowns. "Kavi is okay, right?"

"You _started_ it, Mary, there's no need to ask." I reply uneasily, trying to create some distance between me and her. But she doesn't seem to get it, instead she shuffles along with me too, oblivious with those big blue eyes of hers that bat every seemingly every second. I want to say something, that the closeness was too much. But she meant well, so I allow it. "I see V has taken a shining to you." I run a hand along her back, pausing at the purple scarf tied around her neck. I snicker quietly at that. "You even got her a little trinket to stand out."

She massages V between the ears, earning a rumbling purr in response. "Yeah, I've got a cat or two, remember?! She's a welcomed addition for sure, don't you worry." I grin, but that quickly falters. Fortunately, V will be fine but me on the other hand...Who knows. She seems to notice my discomfort, as she reaches a hand up toward me. I nearly reel back and she pauses, but continues when I still, allowing her to run a hand through my hair and around my ear. "How are you feeling about tomorrow, Kavi?"

"I know what I need to do...but in terms of raw emotion, I'm not too sure." I reply. "What do I really have to come back to, for example, compared to some of the others here?"

"Well, you like your job don't you?"

"Yes, but you could easily train someone up to fill my shoes..."

"No one could fill your shoes. Mayor Simms sings your praises always, even more now that you're here."

"Really?" I wonder aloud. "I thought I wasn't really liked in the office."

She rolls her eyes as if I had said something naïve. " _Yes, really_. You were just fine, you just kept to yourself is all. You have a right to get out alive just as much as anyone else here. If you put your mind toward something totally, you could accomplish anything. That goes _triple_ for you, Kavi." She gushes, caressing one of my hands with both of hers. "And besides, you have me and V waiting here for you too."

"That's good to know." I reply, my cheeks growing hot. They literally overheat when Mary moves in and plops a kiss on my right side, linking her arm with mine as she lays her head on my shoulder. I was too stunned to move. After a year or two of treating her dismissively – like everyone else – here she was, showing me affection. "What was that all about?"

"Well," she swallows, pausing. "If this was the last time of me seeing you, I wanted to let my feelings be known."

I feel badly for letting her in so late. I noticed it, her enjoyment of me, for a while now. But I was too scared of being hurt again. "I'm sorry, Mary, for pushing you aside."

She nods. "You want to live, don't you?"

I nod. "Yes, Of course..."

"So, dedicate your time to just _surviving_. Leave the livelihood part until after you get out. That'll cover the apology, as if the apology wasn't already enough."

I leave it at that, turning my attention to the Capitol's lights. Survival by any means, one day at a time.

* * *

 _ **Donna Ludra Cordillera, 49**_  
 _ **Snow Island Female**_

* * *

"Espere...You're going _where_ again?" Mama asks, scratching her head.

"Mama... _I'm_..." I groan, massaging my face in an attempt to regain my bearings. It was like the goodbyes _all over_ again. I couldn't bear to trigger her again and prompt her to act out like she did then. Was it just the situation I found myself in, or was she deteriorating _even more_ now that I haven't been a constant presence in her life for about a week now. A few months ago, it was innocent things, like leaving her notebook in the fridge or forgetting the time of day. But now it was constant questioning about _everything_. _"Where are we?", "Ludra, what are you doing here?", "Why were you on TV", "The Hunger Games, dios mio!", "Why am I so sad again?"_

Jamaica places a gentle hand on Mama's shoulder. "Ludra is going away for a while...lejos."

" _Hmm_ , Ludra, you've been gone for so long already." She murmurs sadly, turning toward me and patting my cheek. "It'd be nice if you could hurry on back. I miss you."

"I've been missing you too, Mama." "But until I come back, I've found you a nice little spot where you could stay." "Did you finalize the information with the home?"

" _Nope_ , because she's staying with _me_." Jamaica announces proudly, nodding off toward Francisco, who babbles in Elgor's arms. "Francisco could use another abuela in his spoiled life and she'll be a great friend to mine, seeing as her marido died last year, remember?"

I slip from anger to sheer happiness in a millisecond. My eyes drip tears of joy. "You don't have to do this..."

Jamaica shakes her head as fast as she waves her hand toward me. "No Ludra, no... _Familia_ , no home, that's _stupid_." She lets out a giggle as I embrace her, exchanging the customary kisses on the cheek. "Te quiero, Ludra."

I hold onto the tips of her painted nails before letting them drop onto her lap once more. "Te quiero, Jamaica."

"If she needs anything, I'll gladly step in." Elgor pipes up, making silly faces toward Francisco. Noticing that Mama was distraught, he eased the baby boy into her arms. That seems to mellow Mama out a tad. "We've always had your back. _I've_ always had your back. Now, all you have to do is try and focus enough to hopefully _win_."

I smile weakly at him, and then glance at Rafaela, who deliberates with Melanie, Joyceta and Francisco. She was riding high so far. She wasn't scorned, unlike Ricardo. Rafaela is well entrenched in the Capitol's business world. She could most definitely pull strings to keep me alive. But then again, there's only so much a mentor could do to keep their tribute in the running. It all depends on whether the tribute has a _medios –_ wherewithal – to fight through. Do I? Maybe... "I'll try..."

"Trying is all that matters." Elgor says, drawing up a chair so that he's sitting between Jamaica and I. "You're an Isleñas – an _islander_. Since when do things ever come easy to us? Rich or poor, we hustle to get where we need to be. The Games are no different. Especially with...you know...what we do."

"You're right." I smile. Rafaela said it too, but brooding over impending death tends to make you forget about the supposed bright sides of your situation. After Feliz and the children, I could've wasted away in a variety of ways. Instead, I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and made life work for me and Mama – especially _me_. The Games should be no different than the past twenty years since their passing. "Gracias, Elgor. I might as well call you _brother_."

He takes my hand, planting a gentle kiss on the top of it. "It never had to be said. Like we always say back home, there's a very thin line between acquaintance and family." He glances around, confused. "Now um...Where's the other guy, Ricardo?"

* * *

 _ **Ricardo Marcenas, 50**_  
 _ **Snow Island Male**_

* * *

As the elevator slides open with an audible hiss, the Peacekeeper's rifle prods me hard in the back as it shrieks to life.

"Keep it moving reb," the Peacekeeper grumbles, jutting the warm barrel into my cheek when I glare at him. " _Move_ , before I turn you into ash."

A gloved hand promptly lowers the rifle to the ground.

"Now now corporal," the captain chides in her idiotic Capitol accent. "I believe Mr. Marcenas has learned his lesson about acting out. No need to goad him even more." She turns to me now, that stupid grin on her face as she steps aside and gestures into the suite proper. Regardless, I'm shoved forward by the subordinate Peacekeepers out of the elevator and into the room. Inside, Ludra, the kids and the escort gaze at me, bewildered.

"Good evening everyone. Ms. Vasquez, here is your charge." The Captain chimes, jerking me forward by the crook of my elbow. "Sorry if we worried you with his absence."

"Ricardo _, there you are._ I was very worried about your wellbeing after that stupid display of yours!" Slowly, Melanie teeters toward me with her hands splayed out on either side of her as if she were treading on thin ice. The three victors follow closely behind. " _Lo siento,_ Captain Langstrum. The Games can be very taxing on the tributes, naturally. I can _assure_ you that Senor Marcenas' opinions do not reflect the majority of Snow Islanders and that he won't speak out that way _ever again_."

Captain Langstrum glances over at me, giggling as the tip of her tongue snakes out and licks her ruby red lips. "Oh yes...I agree with you _very much_ on that accord."

Face to face, Melanie glances over to the Captain before meeting my eyes, her face the epitome of shock. She shakily reaches a hand out and prods at my cheeks with her thumb and index finger. _It stings,_ as the area was still tender from what _they did._ I open my mouth anyway, prompting the younger woman to gasp loudly as she teeters backward. Ludra and her family look as if they've seen a ghost.

As much as I wanted to snap out, do _something_ , I _couldn't_. I do feel a certain pang in my chest, a pang that urges me to tear up and cry. I suppress that feeling though. I wasn't going to give _anyone_ the satisfaction.

"Keep those cuffs on, as a precaution, at least until tomorrow." Langstrum says, tossing a key toward Francisco. "Newly inducted subjects can be very... _hapless_ in their actions." She tips her peaked cap toward the room, pivoting on her boots as she wriggles a finger around for her goons to follow suit. "Happy Hunger Games!"

Melanie still fixes her gaze toward me, as Ludra and her family get up and make their way towards her bedroom. Rafaela clears her throat, taking off her glasses as she cleans them. She raises her finger to say something, but instead scoffs, shakes her head and walks toward her room while Joyceta pivots on her feet and returns to the living room.

Francisco shakes his head. "I mean...Who would've expected anything else?" he scoffs, turning to make his way toward the living room, leaving Melanie and I standing alone.

"Okay, you were rebellious, but _avoxing_ you was _uncalled_ for." She bemoans. I'd grunt, but my throat is on fire. _The Capitol is the king of doing uncalled for actions._ "We're you at least given medicine?" She shakes her head, mewing out an annoyed moan when I don't answer. They didn't give me anything, besides one shot of morphling to the tongue which _barely_ covered it. She guides me by the elbow, seating me on the sofa. "You _sit down_ while I fix you something. How do they expect him to compete when he's in this condition?!"

"That's the point, they don't want him to!" Francisco calls out, chuckling to himself he his eyes fixate on me, scowling. "Don't look at me like that. You bought this on _yourself_." Joyceta remains glued to her tablet and though her eyes weren't fixed on Francisco or me, she shakes he head.

I shake my head. I wanted to call him a fool, and idiot for following all their rules. But then again he was a Career. I had heard musings about what they did to orphans on Snow Island. People like him were too far gone, unfortunately.

The elevator dings and hisses open. "Hello?" I hear Vera's voice ring out.

I crane my head as Melanie sashays her way from the bedroom hallway toward her. I would've gotten up myself...but I'm too weak. "Yes?"

"I wanted to speak to Ricardo if possible..."

" _No no no_ ," Melanie snips, gently pushing her toward the elevator once again. "You have caused enough problems here. And there won't be much speaking between the two of you anyway."

"Huh...?"

"Goodnight Veradisia. Snow Island wants _absolutamente nada_ to do with District 12!" Melanie scolds, as the elevator closes and dings again. The young escort comes back to my side, jabbing a syringe into my mouth as she feeds me the contents. Everything _stings_ and I almost gag, but further adjustment of the tool makes the process _somewhat_ bearable.

"Maybe this situation is salvageable..." Melanie muses, padding my mouth down with a handkerchief. "All you have to do is play the Game with no hidden strings. Maybe they might tolerate you again..."

I don't make any motion of acknowledging her words. She was wrong. They may have beaten me down and taken my voice – but they haven't taken my spirit away _fully_. Oh I wanted _everything_ to do with District 12, Vera specifically. I glance toward the holovision where their idiotic popularity polls were being showcased.

What else do I have to lose? If _I'm_ doomed to fail, their _coveted favorites_ shall fail too.

* * *

 ** _Piper Malveaux, 24_**  
 ** _Victor of the Ninety-First Hunger Games_**

* * *

 _Who do you know that has the know-how to hack into a Smartphone?_

Gwen. _What's wrong?_

 _I've come across…something._

 _What something is that?_

 _See you soon._

 _Oh boy_...What does Gwen have cooked up this time?

The elevator hissing open, I begin walking briskly through the expansive, circular atrium of the Training Centers central tower. It's dead empty now, bar a few Peacekeepers and Avoxes striding to and from locations. I offer a playful salute to the Peacekeepers standing guard at the entrance. They don't open the door though.

 _...Jesus Christ._

"Where are _you_ off to, Malveaux?" asks one. The voice was familiar but his visor was polarized, couldn't see a thing. Why was it any of his business anyway? PKs, _they're always prodding._

I tap my phone. "I have an appointment with some sponsors." I answer. No point raising any suspicion.

"That Doctor of yours is something else, Malveaux." The other Peacekeeper says while he motions with his rifle. " _Shit_ , I might throw a few PDs her way myself if she makes it far enough."

"I accept _any and all_ patronage, boys." I reply with a respectful incline of the head. "Now, if you'd excuse me...?" As they open the doors without further questioning, I secure my coat around my body and make my way into the cool May night of the Capitol's downtown streets. On the curb was an idle limousine, its chauffeur standing idly by. "Hello," I greet, only to receive a curt nod and grunt in reply. He was an Avox.

I dip into the passenger cabin and lo and behold, Gwen Faraday, Victor of the Ninety-Second Hunger Games was sat on the opposite end. Legs crossed with an archaic laptop was positioned on her thighs, her face was awash with the lights of the machine. Her eyes were fixed onto the screen and I swear you can see the reflection of its contents off her reading glasses.

She glances upward and down again, a smirk on her face. "Lucky you, no sexual t-t-trysts with men twenty years your s-senior."

I fix her an incredulous look as the car begins to move. "Ha ha Gwen...Look on the bright side, you don't have to be constantly reminded to take your happy pills by your escort." I snipe back as she rolls her eyes. We both don't mean any harm by it. Dark humor is what all victors engage in. "What's going on? You've been acting like a weirdo ever since we've gotten here."

"You remember President Kane?" Gwen asks.

"Yeah?" I answer with a scoff. Every adult who grew up in the time of President Snow praised the guy. He spoke of ending the Games after this one. He never got to do it though, after they shot him up in District 1. "What about him?"

"What if I t-told you that it wasn't disgruntled lo-loyalists who shot him up, but just r-regular Capitol agents?"

"Then I'd believe you?" I glance over to the driver's cabin, prompting Gwen to wave me off.

"He's a S-Second Rebellion vet. He'd fight in the t-third if it happened. This car is also bug free, I checked." She assures. "Would you believe me also if I had told you that A-Archibald Kane, his s-son, was just trying to save Panem but DeWynter goaded him into an early trap, making him seem like the n-nationwrecker?"

"I'd still believe you?" I scoff nervously. I mean most Capitolites are convoluted and many are willing to do anything and everything to seek attention. So I imagine that they'd do anything to secure the keys to the Presidential Mansion. "Where are you going with this?"

"Well, Archibald wasn't exiled with his family, he was _killed_." Gwen relevates. "He left me _this holotape_ detailing _everything_ , including contact information."

She plays it, and I listen. Archibald tells us of the conspiracy to assassinate President Kane, with Viondra and other powerful Capitolites plotting it, his plan to take back the nation...Something about a foreign nation – Australia? – and restoring democracy to Panem. By the end of the projection my brain was struggling to contemplate what was said.

"What are you trying to tell me, Gwen?" I ask tiredly. I knew the answer anyway.

"I'm _trying_ to s-say that if you're willing, we could _formulate_ something again." A devilish grin spreads across the Three's face. "Third time's a charm?"

"How many people know about this message?"

"A handful." She answers dubiously. "Most have been executed following the election. They don't know I know and vice-versa. There's only one other victor who may have an idea..."

"And who's that?"

"What you don't know won't hurt you...Unless you're willing to climb aboard?" She trills in a sing-song tone, that smirk appearing on her face again.

I sigh sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. "... _Gwen_."

"You don't think it's possible, look at these internal comms." She says, akin to the tone of a child who's been denied something. She scoots over, shoving the laptop my way. The screen was filled with memos from Peacekeepers and government officials. "They're trying to keep the lid down – _especially_ after these interviews _which were aired uncensored by the way._ The disturbances are _growing_. And when the tributes start dying, they will only _grow_. Take a look around you." She pleads. "People are upset and _rightfully_ so. Two doctors, a well-loved scientist, a local hero, innocent girls who their lives ahead of them? I'd be _upset too_. They're getting their _willpower_ back. Perhaps we could channel that anger into something _productive_ , with Australia's help of course..."

"Now you trust an alien nation to help us too?" I balk, shaking my head. This idea was _convoluted._ And when Gwen gets passionate for something, her stutter goes away completely. "Gwen, you're giving a headache, a tougher one than usual."

She raises her hand in surrender. "Okay...Okay. But when the flame bottles start flying and your PanemNet connection is cut, then maybe you'll come back?"

I scratch the side of my cheek. "I suppose. But until then, can you tone it down? I don't want anything happening to you."

She closes the laptop and secures it in her tote bag. "O-Okay."

I sigh. "Good. Now how about we shake off the pre-Games jitters with malts, on me?"

When Gwen nods in agreement, I sink back into the leather seat. The Capitol's power was too great to be overcome. Sure, things have improved – for those who are _loyal_ – but there were still glaring issues that she rightfully pointed out. Kane being killed just when he announced that he was moving to end the Games, this pathetic Quell twist...There was so much wrong, but what can we do? Thirteen was gone, important figures were dead or wasting away in prison. Wasn't the assassination and the election results obvious.

That's how powerful _they_ are. They could kill a president and steal an election and no one can say jack shit.

This Quell will just be a blip, just like the twenty-four other Games that came along with it. I needed more proof, and then maybe, _just maybe_ , I could pick a side.

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_

I believe that is the end of Act that being said, the Games start next chapter.

Everyone has had a substantial point of view...I believe 4-5, which is right for a quell like this. You cant just kill people off with something as complex as an adult Games. It makes for a drawn out process, but I think it worked. We're making okay time. And 10k plus chapters won't be a common occurrence anymore. Maybe its because I enjoy these types of chapters when it comes to SYOTs.

 _Who do you think will be among those who die first?_

 _If you saw it, which 'Favourite HG moment' was yours? Paisley's, Zenobia's?_

I do have a poll up, but it was a little premature. It asked who you think will win. We'll see.

I still do essential work, which means my hours are double that of a typical part time position. So far so good, though in terms of this. And with school not being open, I should be finished Metamorphosis very shortly.


	33. Day One - Part One

**_Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games.  
_** ** _Arena Day One - Part One_**

* * *

 **Meredith DeWynter Hansson, 21  
**  
 **Socialite**

* * *

For the _umpteenth_ time, Anders stirs as I adjust his uniform. The fact that we were in a _moving_ _limousine_ adds to the difficulty of the task...And the _utter annoyance_ I feel. It was as if I was sorting out a _child_ rather than _grown_ young man.

"I hate these things so much..." he whines... _again_. I can't help but scowl at the man who was _five years_ my senior and a _Peacekeeper_ for Gods' sake – one of the supposed _epitomes_ of _all-Panemian manliness_ besides a Career tribute or _victor_. Yet here he was, balking because he has to _socialize_. Entrusted with my marital life, you'd think Mother and Father would've selected a _top-notch_ man for their _top-notch_ daughter. Like their marriage, they _utterly failed_.

" _Enough_ of that," I snap at him, pausing before securing the collar of his dress whites. "The more you moan about it, the more it'll _show_." Damn. He was a _Hansson_ , where did his family go wrong? It wasn't like they weren't versed in high class just as they were in military ethos? "You did just fine during the wedding and you'll fake it until you make it _here_." Really, what in the _blazes_ happened? The dates – which I can quite literally count on my hand – were nice, the wedding _day_ was _spectacular_. Immediately after that...I don't know.

Grinning, he nods. "I'm sorry Mere-"

I place a finger to his lips. "Don't apologize, just _do it_." Facing the driver's cabin I watch as the grand, iron gates monogrammed in a cursive ' _DW'_ in the middle and flanked with family crest on either side swings open to reveal the DeWynter family estate. It just one of many lush and vast dwellings located in _Elysium Fields_ – a North End enclave where only the most _pedigree_ Capitol families reside. Though I've spent the grand majority of my life on its grounds, entering onto it _never_ ceases to excite me. I suppose that's why we call it " _Efferi_ " – _Euphoria_. Everyday within Efferi's walls was a new adventure filled with excitement and happiness... _mostly._ Flanked by freshly pruned trees, the limousine makes its way up the long paved driveway before circling around the roundabout, centered by an elegant fountain. It stops precisely at the landing of Efferi's center wing, a five story structure fastened by French limestone and navy blue accents and roofing. The front façade was only the _tip_ of what was an opulent iceberg. In fact, the back façade is the most envied feature, with it being the source of magazine covers dating back to when my grandfather was a young man.

The media were set up at the landing, capturing all the high-profile faces here to attend the launch party of course. I turn to Anders now, retrieving my compact while pouting playfully as I adjust my white, halo brim hat while patting down my bouffant. For good measure, I straighten out my blue and white quadrant shift dress and the silver phoenix brooch – the DeWynter house crest – affixed between my chest and left collarbone. One would think I was a politician wearing it – as it _was_ our nation's emblem. Duty, service and making Panem _great_ was the DeWynter family business, so I suppose that's why we bear it.

"How do I look darling?" I trill.

"You look good. I _love_ your color coordination." He grins, nodding off towards the window. Any and _all_ excitement toward him has once again, like a punctured balloon, _deflated_. I was expecting a chaste kiss to the cheek or lips or even a kiss on the hand as he tells me how _beautiful_ or _ravishing_ I looked. But instead I get _'good'_. What was 'good', really?

"...Thanks darling." I reply dryly. I perk right back up however, as the driver opens the passenger door and with it the flurry of questions by the media party accompanied by their flashing cameras. I take Anders' hand and grip it, perhaps harder than I intended. " _Remember_ , smiles, smiles, smiles. We're above it _all_." I chide, and proceed to exit the automobile. I may be a Hansson by marriage, but I'm a _DeWynter_ by _blood._ That alone is enough to keep my chin up even on my _lowest_ of days.

 _"Meredith, welcome back!"_

 _"You two look great!"_

 _"How was District 4?!"_

 _"Who do you think will fall today!?"_

* * *

Making our way to the top of the landing we're greeted by one of our many staff captains – who just so happens to be mines, or _my family's_ – Cadbury. Behind him stand a row of bowing Avoxes dressed in identical servant wear.

"Ah, good afternoon Ms. Meredith, or should I say _Mrs. Hansson_ now?!" The elder man bows, planting a gentle kiss on my gloved hand. Rising, he casts a coy glance toward Anders and extends a hand toward him. "And your better half is with you of course? Welcome to Efferi, Junior Lieutenant!"

Though it wasn't needed, I prod Anders' elbow as he meets Cadbury's stretched hand and pumps it. "Hello, sir. Thank you."

"I've been privileged in raising this little girl into the budding young woman she is today." He continues, waggling a playfully stern finger toward him. "You'd better continue treating her right, Mr. Hansson."

As Anders respectfully inclines his head, I grin towards the elder man. "Hello Cadbury, it's great to see you again. Is the party in full swing?"

" _But of course_! I believe the entire DeWynter tribe is accounted for." He answers, his expression glowing. "Would you like to be taken to Mistress Nora?"

I smile, but shake my head. Though it's always a treat to meet the family at get-togethers, all Mother and our female relatives do is sit around and gossip about thoughtless things such as fashion and community happenings. _Yes_ , talking about hair or the latest victor was fine and dandy at times, but I couldn't sit still knowing that there were _so many_ movers and shakers attending this party. Industry magnates, field marshals, politicians and dignitaries...Oh, if I could just _see_ them. "Could I see _father_?"

The staff captain caresses his cheek. "He doted about you an hour or two ago. He's in the top floor parlor with the _president_ and esteemed guests. You know how they get when they're in there. Don't punish me if he refuses you."

"You had me at _'president'_ and _'esteemed guests'_ " I giggle. "I won't hold it against you."

Father would _never_ deny his Meredith of her wants.

"You remind me so much of _her._ She too hated custom," Remarks Cadbury, grinning from ear to ear. He gestures to the slightly ajar iron doors. "Please, follow me and I shall escort you there."

Through the elegant iron doors we go, entering into the expansive first floor lobby. Adorned with oak-paneled walls and checkered tiles, it was here where we kept paintings of DeWynter members past and present. On the east and west walls most notably hung multiple gargantuan portraits, each depicting the family branches of my grandfather and grandaunt and uncles' generation going forward. Again, one couldn't' help but take a glance at each of them, they way each family member was painted in explicit detail. I get a _real_ kick out of seeing Anders' flabbergasted expression.

"How many of you guys _are there?"_ he wonders aloud as we continue our ascent up the floors. The security presence was thick throughout the estate, with serious-looking men and women in leather uniforms – Capitol Guardsmen – prowling each floor and hall we pass.

"Well..." I flounder, biting the inside of my mouth. "I have my grandfather, Sterling DeWynter I, and three granduncles and aunts – which are _all_ alive and well mind you – and they had one or two children among them." I point to the portrait of our patriarch – Richard DeWynter III – and his side of the family. "My granduncle had an entire brood – Viondra DeWynter among them."

"Did I meet all of them at the wedding?" he asks, perplexed. From what I remember, the wedding was a flurry of hugs, kisses and handshakes. All I can say for certain, barring most of the little children, was that every DeWynter with a pulse was there.

"...Perhaps." I answer, nodding down the hall. " _Oh_ , here come some of them now."

A cacophony of laughter eminates down the hall as members of the adolescent generation of the DeWynter family make their way towards us with their friends in tote. In the middle of them was Francisco Noriega of Snow Island with my sister, Saoirse, clung possessively to his arm. They immediately quiet to murmurs and giggles when they spot Anders and me. These trolls are _always_ up to something. Even though the mansion has dozens upon dozens of rooms, you can still hear their giggles and pattering of feet through its halls.

"Hi Meredith!" they all trill together.

"Hello fellow cousins, their friends...Sterling, Saoirse," I greet back warmly in reply while deadpanning at the mention of my siblings. They respond in kind, blowing raspberries and sticking tongues out. "Shouldn't you imps be _outside_ , enjoying this _wonderful_ weather?"

"It's too hot to be outside...Not to mention _loud_." Snorts Emilia as the gaggle turns to her and nods. "My room is where the _real_ party begins."

I shake my head. I could only imagine the unattended liquor cabinets down there ripe for the swiping now that the housekeepers were focused on the party. Though I couldn't blame them, I used to do the same with my friends.

"So, I see the lovebirds have arrived just in time for the party..." comments Sterling – the _third_ – with a smirk. "You guys look so good together, a real magazine couple."

I roll my eyes at the seventeen-year-old, turning my attention to Francisco. "Shouldn't _you_ be at the tribute center?" I ask the Snow Island victor.

Francisco shrugs. "Lost cause..." Smirking, he turns to my sister now, who sports an idiotic grin on her lips. "Besides, I'd rather be _here_."

I hum, offering them a playful wave as they say their goodbyes and continue their raucous conversation down the hall. Given his male charge, I couldn't blame him for feeling that way.

* * *

I squeal inwardly, gripping the crook of Anders' arm for dear life while watching as Cadbury pops out from the parlor entrance and gestures for us to come forward. Any and all chatter from inside the room stills as Anders and I creep through the space in the slight ajar doors to reveal an expansive and lush parlor. Like my cousin Viondra DeWynter before me, or so I hear, I too wondered about the goings on within this room. I've seen unauthorized peeps throughout my life but never a full blown glimpse into the life of a male DeWynter. _It was exactly as I imagined._ My senses are overloaded with the sheer amount of imagery my eyes try to devour. A widescreen holovision where a muted Marceline chats about the upcoming carnage, velvet settees, a billiard table, a mini bar, oak paneled walls carved with intricate etchings and fitted with pelt from the various hunts they've engaged in, French doors and windows with glass panels garnished with only the finest drapes. And of course, it wouldn't be a gentlemen's space without the cigarette smoke wafting through the air, mixing in with the scent of drink.

"Master Sterling Senior, Your Excellency, DeWynter members and esteemed guests," Cadbury announces, gracefully stepping away to reveal us proper. "May I present to you, Mr. Anders Hansson and Mrs. Meredith DeWynter Hansson."

Winking, Cadbury takes his leave as we enter fully now. Glancing around the room, I smile and nod at the various faces that stare back at me. The both of us say polite hellos to the dignitaries, Peacekeeper officers, government officials and cousins that _were_ those things. My eyes focus squarely near the inactive marble fireplace where a number of chairs sit, my father, my granduncle Richard DeWynter and a man I recognize as Prime Minister Montresor occupies another. There's another two chairs that face the fireplace directly, flanked on either side of the right chair were two hyenas. A manicured hand massages the head of the hyena on the left.

"Meredith my sweet, come come!" Father beckons with vigorous waves. I oblige immediately, tugging Anders along with me and ignoring that look of uneasiness he sports all the while. Father rises when I come in range, and we exchange kisses to either cheek. Anders, chuckling nervously, receives a firm handshake. "How was your honeymoon?"

I crane my head to see the two other occupants. "Hello Father, Prime Minister, Granduncle Richard. It went... _well_." I smile, moving to gently shake the hand of Prime Minister Montresor and hug Granduncle Richard. "District 4 is such a _wonderful_ place to visit this time of year."

"District 4 for me has lost its luster," A familiar voice croons. It was deep, husky yet retained femininity. I turn around to see my elder cousin and President of Panem Viondra DeWynter, sipping water from a glass tumbler, placing it back on the tea table in front of her. "Maybe it's because I'm older, been there _too many_ times to count. Snow Island on the other hand seems like a new adventure _every time_."

I smile at her, taking her all in as I approach her for a hug. Even in a male-dominated space such as this, she maintains her footing in a navy cocktail dress accentuated by a family brooch. Her blonde hair was fixed in a simple beehive. "Hello Viondra." I greet, enveloping her into a hug. I let out a playful, quiet squeak while discreetly rubbing her slightly distended midsection. She looks absolutely stunning, given her _condition_. She exchanges the same courtesy with Anders. "Father offered the villa up and besides, I went to Snow Island _last year_."

"To each their own." The President replies. She turns me toward the chair to her left. "Premier, meet Meredith. Meredith, meet Premier Sergei Kudryavtsev of the Sovereign States. She was the relative I was talking about – a _rising star_ within the DeWynter family."

"She's our diplomat in the making, Mr. Premier," Montresor adds with a smile, glancing at me. "Your professor gave me a rough draft of your foreign policy thesis." He gives me a chef's kiss. "It was _wonderful_."

"Thank you, Prime Minster. I look forward to publishing it very soon..." I reply, albeit a bit flustered due to the man seated in front of me. Though the Premier dressed in a suit that was pre-Panem in style, he made up for it by adoring the garment with various medals, native to his nation. A chiseled face with light scaring that was more _pleasing_ than grotesque, nice blue eyes and slicked parted hair, something you'd see on a man living in Panem. He was most definitely _very_ handsome. He was as old as Viondra and he filled the suit out _tremendously_.

"So this is the young lady you were speaking so glowingly about...?" rising from his seat, the Premier dips his head and gently kisses my gloved hand. "Good afternoon, my dear."

I swear by the gods my heart skipped a beat.

"...Privet Prem'yer." I breathe, gulping as he turns to Viondra in surprise. She smirks in return. Anders is no longer by my side, and maybe hasn't been for a minute or so as he curiously looks over the parlor.

He folds his arms, impressed I guess. "Otkuda ty znayesh' russkiy?" _How'd you learn Russian?_

"Um...U nas zdes' inostrannaya shkola ... Tak chto my mozhem...stat' poslami." _I go to foreign affairs school in hopes to become an ambassador._ I nod tentatively, only to nod even more fervently as the Premier caresses his chin amusement. This marriage to Anders wasn't going to hold me down from chasing my dreams of representing the Capitol to the remnants of the world. "Kak vam...nravyatsya...nashi traditsii?" _How are you finding Panemian traditions so far?_

He shrugs with a slight grin on his face. "Vy, panemtsy, strannyye lyudi. Ya uchus' kazhdyy den'." _You Panemians are a strange people. I'm learning every day._ His hand hasn't left mine yet, instead they to our side. "Vozmozhno, vy smozhete posetit' Rossiyu odnazhdy, i ya pokazhu vam nashi." _Perhaps you could visit Russia one day, and I can show you some of ours._

"That would be _lovely_." I gush, feeling slightly... _heated_. I glance around to see if they're still listening, but Father, granduncle and Mr. Montresor were deep in conversation and Viondra was tending to Mars and Juniper with that smug grin still on her lips. I glance back to the Premier, his eyes never leaving me for a second. Giggling, I allow a smile.

* * *

Anders seems oblivious of my little conversation with the Premier, or he's ignoring it outright, as he says nothing while we leave the parlor and make our way down the fourth floor balcony down toward the party proper. Though he's got the build for it, he doesn't seem the sort to confront people physically or verbally, which makes me wonder how he would've fared as an officer in the Navy if his mother and father weren't flag officers. If our honeymoon didn't showcase that to me, then today serves as blatant evidence. Maybe he's still jittery that he has _me_ on his arm. I would be too.

"Look," Anders says, nodding over to the third floor landing. "There's Matilda."

The first daughter, known to all as _'Panem's little angel'_ sits under a patio bench with her nanny by her side. She seems content with a storybook while her relatives play all around her. She's the most peculiar six-year-old I've ever seen. She has her bouts of energy but immediately retreats when it becomes too much. The same can't be said for the other little DeWynters running around. Thankfully many of them were with sitters during my wedding.

I begin waving. "Hi Matilda!"

She glances up from her book, smiles and then waves at her nanny's behest.

"Don't you want to say hi to your mother and relatives?" Anders asks while pointing and waving toward Mother, who does the same with my cousin Violet by her side. I didn't want to. There would be plenty of time to catch up with my relatives and have them pry into my personal life as they do everyone else. Who knew how many friends were out there in the sea of people. I'd rather catch up with them before they return to their fields of work. There was many a thing I'd like to share with some of them if I did indeed find them. As we continue down the steps hand in hand, I make eye contact with Mother and point toward the field, to which she relents.

* * *

The backyard – or back _field_ I should say was chocked full of people happily attending the launch party. As per the Hunger Games holiday, the space was draped in Panemiana. Every tree and surface was decorated in crimson and gold – the nation's colors – alongside pennants and paper flags.

It was a fairly warm day, so naturally some seek refuge from the heat by standing near the gargantuan fountain hoping to catch the spray carried by the wind or take a seat on one of the patio tables. Multiple holoscreens displaying the Games were positioned about the field with plenty of people camped on lounge chairs below them. Though the Games haven't begun yet, people are kept entertained by vocalists accompanied by a big band playing both modern hits and pre-Panem renditions. _"And when Salome danced and had the boys entranced, no doubt it must have been easy to see, that she knew how to use her, personality!"_

Anders and I both make a break for the nearest punch table without saying a word. It's when I'm halfway through downing my second cup of punch that I notice someone familiar standing amongst a group of army Peacekeepers just feet away. The person in question turns to the side and cackles, allowing me to see some of their face. If it weren't for her piercing blue eyes, browline glasses and blonde pixie cut and lessened height, Margot Devereaux would fit in just fine with the burly Peacekeepers that she stood around. She even decided to forgo the skirt of her dress uniform, opting to wear the male jodhpurs. She would do the same in school, slacks and suits over skirts and dresses. They'd tease her relentlessly for it, but Margot didn't care one bit.

"Margot?" I call. She glances toward me and then back to her group. Slapping the dark-skinned boy beside her on the shoulder, he nods as Margot jerks a thumb toward me. One last clap on the shoulder and she pivots on her jackboots, grinning ear to ear as she opens her arms up for a hug.

" _Meredith_ , long time no see!" she greets, patting my back as I welcome her embrace. "You're looking _fab_ in that dress might I say."

I let out an airy laugh, shaking my head as we break apart. The seriousness of her profession be dammed. She may be a Peacekeeper, but she was a Devereaux through and through. I glance at the rather stylish cut of her bluish-grey dress uniform. "You're looking rather dapper yourself, Marg."

"I know! I've gotten so much complements." She chuckles back in reply, gesturing to her left chest area which was occupied by one medal. "All I need are a few pieces of chest candy and I'm _golden_..." Margot shakes her head, clutching me by the hands. "Why are we talking about me, how are YOU?! How was the honeymoon?!"

Instead of the beaming smiles I gave to my family members, I frown deeply, deeper than I intended to. Margot catches on _immediately_. "What the hell was that Meredith?! Alright, lay it on me, I _demand_ to know."

"...I _hated_ it." I hiss. "You and I both know that I'm not the biggest dater, so when he came into the picture I thought everything would be compensated for..." Margot's face splits in half from her gargantuan smile. I playfully roll my eyes, sighing. "The wedding was nice and as you know, we went immediately to Four, to Father's villa?" I continue, heat immediately rising to my cheeks "...We didn't really..." Margot raises an eyebrow in confusion as I sigh sharply. " _Do anything_...?"

Margot snickers like a petulant child. " _Oh Meredith_ , you're such a _prude_. But I feel your pain nonetheless. You did absolutely _nothing_ for a whole week?! At your age?! You might as well be our parents' age with that dryness."

"Well, it wasn't for a lack of trying on _my_ end...very little on _his_." I mutter, twiddling my index fingers. "He just wasn't... _excited_ at all..."

"I think I know what the problem is – trust me. Call it a... _vested interest_." Margot purrs, adjusting her eyeglasses as she winks. "Your dear husband seems to prefer the company of _other gentlemen_."

Dumbfounded, Margot peers past me and then spins me around. Anders stands with a couple of Navy buddies. A friend in front of him appears to crack a joke, prompting Anders to laugh aloud, laying a hand on his elbow. Long after the joking moment passed, the _hand still stays_ there, transitioning to other parts of the body such as the shoulder or back to the elbow. "It's not _you_ by any stretch. You DeWynter gals are straight _china dishes,_ but one can't help who they _like_..." Margot chimes in a sing-song tone.

If we weren't in public I'd be _bawling my eyes out._ So this is who I'm attached to until I die? All these years of waiting for my Prince Charming and this is what I get? How could I be so foolish not to see it? Maybe I didn't want to? As if the week of no romance and the lukewarm complements weren't enough slaps upside the head to make me see.

Margot seems to notice my sadness, as she places my hand in the crook of her elbow. "C'mon...The Hunger Games start today! Happy happy happy! I'm sure watching the spectacle will cheer you up a tad."

* * *

Margot is right. The Hunger Games are indeed today, and watching a whole new _adult_ cast vying for the crown is enough to push aside Anders for the time being. These are the _hundredth_ Games, so of course it'd be beneficial to hang out with Margot and create memories for such a momentous time in our nation's history. We make our way toward the central holoscreen, where the grand majority of the party goers begin to assemble under umbrella tables. Instead of joining the throng of people, we make our way to the lightly occupied pop-up mini bar kiosk. When we get closer, I see a familiar face occupying one of the stools.

Margot picks up the pace, gently tugging me forward while waving with her free hand. "Hey Sanjay!"

Sanjay Singh perks up at his name, turns towards us and waves. "Hey Margot, Meredith," He takes off his wayfarers, placing them in between the buttons of his polo shirt as he moves to shake hands with Margot before embracing me in a hug. "I just _love_ DeWynter parties. I can never get enough _this_ place."

"You and I both." Margot agrees while we all take our seats. We give the Avoxes our orders and await them.

"Hello Sanjay," I chirp, giving my friend a look over. Parted undercut, navy polo shirt with a cardigan wrapped around his neck and khaki slacks with brown weejuns...He was the epitome of Gem-league as per usual. "You look like you belong on the front cover of _Gentleman's Gazette_."

"Clothes are _everything_ , I can't resist." He smirks. We receive our drinks and nearly down them just as fast.

"What do you think this years' arena will be?" I ask aloud, though Margot and I immediately turn toward Sanjay for his thoughts. His aunt _was_ Head Gamemaker after all.

Grinning, he shrugs. "I've pestered her for a _year_ and she never budged. My guess is as good as yours. The promotional material keeps changing. And when I mean changing I mean the colors of the posters and billboards keep switching...Kinda makes me wonder if that's a hint?"

"Don't forget the line up of the tributes during the interviews, those were changed as well." I add. I wasn't here during the opening ceremony or I'd be better connected to the inner workings by being by Viondra's side. I do like being on the speculative end of things, however.

"Who do you think will win?" wonders Margot, grinning like an idiot as we all give one another knowing looks.

" _Two_." We all deadpan aloud to light chuckles.

"Though I'm partial to Thames Montgolia, personally." I add. "Oh, and poor poor Aurelia Baudelaire..."

"Imagine the liquidation sales though..." Margot sniggers, pursing her lips and cutting them short when Sanjay and I don't laugh, but rather give her a chiding, but amused, shake of the head.

"All of them seem capable enough...Any death is a surprise, really," says Sanjay, putting the straw into his mouth. He sips, sighing as he revels in his drink. "I guess it's _all up in the air_."

We're riled by the playing of _Horn of Plenty._ Everyone else is too, as the band immediately ceases playing and the field is awash in harsh shushes and _quiet's_. From the national seal, the screen cuts to Marceline's studio, which garners applause from us and the partygoers.

"Good afternoon Panem! I am honored to welcome you to the One Hundredth Annual _HUNGER GAMES_!" Marceline roars with a cackle. "The tributes are _in place._ The mentors are _in place_. My panel of Hunger Games junkies and I are _ready_...Are _YOU_ ready?!" It seems Marceline has command of the audience _regardless_ if they're in studio or not, as we all let out a cheer in reply. "Glad to hear it! Without further adieu, let us take a glimpse at this year's iconic arena."

The camera fades to black. And then opens to rolling greenery, as if the audience were flying a hovercraft, the camera zooms through the trees to reveal an open manicured field, which houses the silver cornucopia. The horn was dwarfed by a giant oak tree planted atop of it, its leaves glistening in the sun to a triumphant florish.

 _"On behalf of Head Gamemaker Pearlana Singh and her team, we would like to welcome you to Metamorphosis – the One Hundredth Hunger Games!"_

As the cameras cut through various river systems, grazing stag, a roaring waterfall, mountains and cave systems, I could help but think that this arena was so...so..." _Lush,_ I've never seen an arena so pristine besides _HG 50!_ " Marceline marvels. "I've _never_ seen grass so _green_ or water so _opaque_!"

"Metamorphosis...Metamorphosis means _change_..." says a commentator."So like change in weather patterns?"

"That's a fair interpretation!" a Gamemaker I recognize as Yvette Phillips beams in reply. "However, there's a lot more _nuance_ to be had."

Marceline caresses her chin. "Mmm, I can't wait to discover those nuances!"

Another Gamemaker, Melchior Stevens, inclines his head. "And we will, soon enough!"

"I'm not sure what to think..." Margot says.

Sanjay cocks his head. "Think Piper Malveaux's arena, but instead of always being hot, the biome is subject to change."

"I wonder how they'll go about that..." Margot continues to wonder. I can't help but wonder too. They've triggered avalanches and can summon fires, but overtly changing weather and the biome itself...? I'm genuinely curious.

"Just wait and see, you dodo." Sanjay playfully scolds. I playfully massage Margot's neck. She's not wrong to be bewildered. Even I'm bewildered by what Pearlana and her colleagues are able to conjure up. They've conjured up zombies, so I know for certain this arena will also be a treat.

The camera cuts to a model slowly rotating on screen, showcasing what must be the arena uniform. "Tell us about the uniforms, Yvette! They look pretty spiffy!"

"Of course, the team and I styled them ourselves! They're spiffy indeed but also very practical. What you're looking at is a fully black, multi-pocketed wetsuit ala HG 75 with a terracotta leather blouson with a wool leather collar. The tributes are also kitted out with belts and holster webbing to hold various weapons and items collected by tributes in the field. On each left arm is an armband displaying their district and district color."

"Those things seem like they belong in multiple environments..." comments Marceline.

"The arena itself is fairly moderate in terms of temperature. The wetsuits are quite insulated, blocking out most cold and the jacket serves as extra cushioning. Think of these items as a second skin."

"I hear they have ponchos?" asks a commentator. The camera cuts to a female model sporting the camouflage slicker.

"Yep, it's located on the back of the belt in a pouch." Melchior confirms as the screen cuts to what he's talking about. "It's easily stored, Peacekeeper-grade."

"I think I speak for _everyone_ when I say that we literally cannot wait to see what you have in store." Marceline says.

"You don't have to wait much longer, as the countdown begins right now!"

The field, us included, literally erupts in cheers as the twenty-six tributes rise into place, all at least twenty meters apart. Though I don't have much at stake at all, I can't help but feel the heat rising in my chest as the camera speeds past all the contestants. I have many tributes I liked this time around, yet I can't say for certain how each of them will fare.

"And so it does..." Marceline sighs. "I love the looks on each tributes face as they settle into their new environment and the clock counts down. It's almost as if they're reaffirming what they hope to achieve..."

 _Fifty-Five...Fifty-Four...Fifty-Three...Fifty-Two..._

On screen, Sarissa Levesque seems pissed off. Probably because the arena isn't as grand as she wanted it to be. She glares to her right, where Wondr'a Okafor was stationed and then to her left. The frown on her lips is turned upside down when she lays her eyes on the tribute situated to her right.

"Oh wow..." comments Margot. "Talk about shitty luck..."

"For a Twelver, I thought she was pretty decent," Adds Sanjay. "Well, she is a Capitolite... _technically_."

The potentially doomed tribute, Veradisia Smith, doesn't make her discomfort explicitly known, though it's obvious on her face and her awkward positioning on the pedestal. She'd have to be very lucky to get out of that situation before an ally can save her...If they even can.

 _Forty-nine...Forty-eight...Forty-seven...Forty-six..._

Warren Holt, the dreamboat, stands meters next to her with the crudest smile on his face. He stares past her toward Sarissa as the two exchange grim laughter. Beside him, Aurelia Baudelaire of District One seems elated that he hasn't turned to see her yet. I find her being here to be a shame, really. The outspoken one, Ricardo Marcenas, eyes the unfortunate scene from the right hand end of the semi circle. He pivots his body toward Vera.

Margot grunts, adjusting her glasses. "Oh gee, the _entire alliance_ is spread out."

"Easy pickings," I comment aloud, taking a sip of my drink. "It happens all the time with meddlesome tributes."

 _Forty-five...Forty-four...Forty-three...Forty-two..._

The Seven woman – Verona Kinsley – looks startled out of her mind. Her eyes dart from the horn to the other tributes to the scenery around her. I enjoyed her interview, but unfortunately verbal wit doesn't translate very well into the arena. I wonder how she'll play...If she gets the chance to play at all.

Tobias Ledger, shielding his eyes, nods towards the Seven man beside him. "Nice weather for a Hunger Games, huh?!"

Chris Samera chuckles and shrugs. "I was hoping for a beach but this'll do!"

"Not a forest?!"

Chris shakes his head. "I'm surrounded by this stuff every day! A change of scenery would be nice!" this earns laughter from the field, even Sanjay and Margot chuckle along. I take a sip of my drink. Countdown banter wasn't unheard of, but it was still a peculiar thing to bear witness to. I suppose it staves off the jitters.

Thirty-nine...Thirty-eight...Thirty-seven...Thirty-six...

The Nine woman, Hermia, shows no fear, only calculation as she eyes a knife and a rucksack meters from her. She too was another tribute I wondered for. A former rebel and a Two to boot, how does that translate here? Beside her, Alana Oskoii stands on her toes, seemingly scanning the field for items. The bigger alliance already seems to be eager to get to work. Linden Norton hisses toward Geronimo Busan who hisses toward Laelia Alvarado who then discreetly waves toward Donna Ludra Cordillera. When he's sure he has their attention, he makes gestures with his hands and head. The others seem to get it as they nod in understanding. Except Donna Ludra that is, who pivots towards the treeline whilst shaking her head.

 _Thirty-four...Thirty-three...Thirty-two...Thirty-one..._

Beside Linden, Russett watches this. He seems upset almost, deciding to block out their scheming and instead focus all his attention to the mouth of the horn. Thames on the other hand, although he doesn't show it, follows along with their gesturing. I could tell by the way his eyes tremble, perhaps scanning from left to right without making it obvious. Laelia turns to Maia Clear, who scowls sadly before pivoting on her heels, facing _away_ from the horn and its goodies. Closing her eyes, the Three girl murmurs something to herself before stretching out her arms. Laelia frowns, focusing her attention back to the horn.

 _Twenty-nine...Twenty-eight...Twenty-seven...Twenty-six..._

The Two I find most peculiar, Solomon Kohli and Emmanuel Cade, stand meters away from each other. What differentiates Solomon from everyone else is the scarf that he dawns. Standing casually with his hands in his pockets, the garment blows gently in the wind. Emmanuel on the other hand, arms folded, scans the scenery, the horn and then the tributes. Both he and Kohli exchange glances toward each other.

"That's a lovely scarf!" Emmanuel grins. Solomon was having none of it, rolling his eyes as he directs his gaze elsewhere. The young man from Ten holds his smirk, focusing on the gear strew in front of him.

 _Twenty-five...Twenty-four...Twenty-three...Twenty-two...Twenty-one..._

Lars Malatic seems nervous, as well as Nautia Novakova beside him. They fight off the feeling by stretching or exhaling deeply. They seem to catch each other's eye, as the jailbird offers a polite nod. Nautia surprisingly exchanges the gesture, turning to focus on scanning the field for items in front of her.

Kaviraya Parathi, another potential wildcard, runs a hand through his hair, seemingly nervous. He hunches down on his pedestal, muttering something to himself before sighing. Beside him, Tuesday Suetos stares longingly at the sheathed knife just a meter away from her position. Beside her Zahira Kazimirova pivots from the mouth radius to her east, confused, as she spies her district partner.

 _Nineteen...Eighteen...Seventeen...Sixteen...Fifteen...Fourteen..._

"What's going on there?" Margo asks. On cue, the camera cuts to Theilan Caldron, who seemingly counsels Wondr'a who stands on the edge of her pedestal. She looks worse for wear, with tears streaming down her cheeks and her arms folded. Theilan clasps his hands together and though the audio doesn't pick it up, I see that he's mouthing the words " _Please, please_."

Margo grumbles sadly. "She always was an enigma to me..."

Sanjay shrugs. "Not really. She volunteered to _escape_...Seems obvious to me."

Even as every tribute seems content, finished with any mental wonderings or tactical schemes and ready themselves to take flight off their pedestals, Mr. Caldron continues to coax Wondr'a from off the edge. Outside the arena, here and now, people all around us begin to stir and squeal with anticipation. It was almost time. Years of wondering what this specific year would bring was about to be answered.

"Ten!"

"Nine!"

"Eight!"

"Seven!"

"Six!"

"Five!"

"Four!"

"Three!"

"Two!"

 _"ONE!"_

* * *

 ** _Veradisia Smith, 19_**

 ** _District 12 Female_**

* * *

If I go down here, _I will not_ go down with a whimper.

As the gong sounds off, I immediately leap off my pedestal. I decide to make a beeline for the lesser threat, _Warren._ He seems shocked at the move, but sprints toward me anyway. We meet in the middle of our pedestals, grappling hand to hand as I push against his force. With him being the male – _a Career male_ – I immediately find myself slipping backward in the grass. My vision flashes white as he launches a fist into my face, connecting with my cheek. I pump my knee into his stomach not once, but twice, allowing me to overtake him as I run Warren into his pedestal. Just as he lets out a shout of pain, I see dark-skinned hands wrap around me, placing me in a headlock.

"It seems you're a threat after all." Sarissa sneers into my ear, the pressure around my neck increasing. "Why else would they give you t'me on a silver platter?"

From both fear and the lack of oxygen, I immediately flail from left to right, pumping a foot out into Warren's chest as he teeters backwards. I forcefully throw myself to the left, enough to bring both Sarissa and I onto the floor. Air rushes back into my lungs immediately, as I roll onto my stomach. In my vision, a hand stretch away, lay something _silver_. I reach for it, but I'm immediately tugged back by Sarissa's hand on my foot. She begins to twist, sending a searing pain up my leg as I let out a yelp of pain. With my free leg I kick upwards, hitting the Career squarely in the jaw. She releases me, cursing as she spits out a wad of blood from her mouth. She has little time to recover, however, as I swing my baton into her face, creating a jagged cut across her cheek. She glares at me. If looks could kill, I'd be dead. I swing again and as my hand comes down, she catches it by the wrist, her free hand grappling my neck. Struggling to get free, Sarissa forces me forward into a pedestal. Her sharp nails digging into my neck, Sarissa wrings the baton from out of my grasp, ignoring my futile punches as she strikes me in the temple with the steel rod. I gasp with each hot, stinging strike she delivers. The blood is flowing freely now, I can feel it as it trickles down the side of my cheek and into my vision.

 _"_ Here Sarissa..." Warren breaths, handing a hilt out towards her. "I got a knife-"

I hear rustling. Just as I hear the commotion I see a blur take Warren down as he bleats out a pained cry. It was _Ricardo_ who sat pinned on top of Warren as he feeds to punches into the boy's face. Dazed, Warren stills. Sarissa turns to meet the Snow Island man, swinging her baton. It hisses through the air as Ricardo ducks, shooting a fist into stomach. Sarissa doubles over in pain, looking up once more as a fist crashes into her face, sending her reeling to the ground. It was a sight to behold. A grown man putting two young Careers in their place.

"Thank you so very much, Ricardo," I gasp. "Really and truly." Without him and him alone, I'd be _dead_ right now. Grunting, he clutches me by the shoulder and pushes me forward toward the horn while Sarissa and Warren begin to stir. I glance to my left and right, watching as the other tributes slowly spread out toward various items of interest. I immediately pick up a pickax, placing it onto my belt before scooping up a knife. I quickly pounce onto a olive rucksack, securing it around my waist and chest. I think about going further into the horn's radius, perhaps to get a sword, but this was good enough and I wanted very little to do with the cornucopia right now. Glancing upward, I watch as Ricardo secures a broadsword and an even larger rucksack. He points toward something behind me, and I turn, immediately ducking as a silver object - a knife - whistles past me. I send one back Sarissa's way, and another as she lays flat on her stomach, avoiding both blades.

I take the chance I'm given and take my leave, joining Ricardo as we sprint into the treeline. Sarissa and Warren, despite their cusses and yells, don't follow. I didn't bother to think about our other allies. If that _farce_ of a launch placement tells me anything, it's probably for the best that we remain separated. But if I were to see them again, I'd be more than happy to reunite with them. But right now, _my survival_ is all that matters and with Ricardo by my side, all is well. My leg stung like no tomorrow, blood stained my vision, I don't know what this arena holds for me, but I'm still _alive._ The rest I can most definitely worry about later.

* * *

 ** _Verona Kinsley, 63_**

 ** _District 7 Female_**

* * *

Just think of it as one of your track meets back in the good old days. I still like to think I have a little of my teens left in me...

I leap off my pedestal, collecting the miniature ax and moving onto the next ax, and the next ax as I place them in the notches of my belt. I grin as I leap forward and collect one more ax. It was as if they were giving me a break! I let out a breathy exhale, turning back toward my pedestal. I only made it a few meters away from my pedestal and I was _already_ winded. I have to push through regardless. Just making it away from the horn's radius enough to last at least an hour would be enough for me.

I then turn my attention back to my front, where a medium-sized rucksack lay waiting for someone to collect it. I quickly power forward, huffing and puffing toward the pack as I scoop it up. With trembling hands, I fasten the chest clip but the waistclip...I couldn't secure it! I glance around the semi-circle, watching as everyone sprints toward their desired items. None come my way, good. Just as I almost connect the male part into the female part, I'm shoved _hard_ onto the floor. Besides the hard landing, I feel no pain, instead, as I'm pinned on my back, I feel the rucksack being torn off my body, despite my protestations.

"Hey!" I cry. As the rucksack is stripped from off my back, so is their grip on me. I flip onto my back, watching as the doctor from Five - Tuesday - inspects my backpack. I move to rise, only for her to level an imposing knife toward me. Even though I had axes, I was in no shape to fight. So, I can only watch as she sprints off with my backpack in hand. I couldn't help but notice that she too had a rucksack of her own. "Really, you had to go take MINE too?! Stupid _bitch_..."

The boy from District 5 sprints into my vision, tossing another backpack my way. "Here miss!"

I scramble to my feet, nodding at the young man. "Thank you...Geronimo?" he probably didn't hear that, as he was gone as soon as he presented the bag to me. Hearing rustling from behind me, I spin around, elated to see Hermia, Tobias and Alana, each armed and equipped and _not dead._ I glance at the trident in Tobi's hands. " _Really_ Tobi?"

Tobi grins as Hermia steps forward her face far from a joking one. "Are you ready to go?"

Relief washes over me as I fasten the ruck belt together."Yep."

"What about Ricardo and Vera?" Alana asks. We turn toward the area she was positioned. She and Ricardo were currently being chased by a battered Sarissa and Warren.

I shake my head. "Right now, _who cares_. We need to get moving." We immediately begin a brisk jog out of the area, towards the northern treeline according to the compass watch I was kitted with.

"Not bad for a bunch of on-the-verge geezers, eh?!" I pant, earning labored giggles from my allies. Seemingly filled with energy and elation, I find myself speeding ahead of my allies. All that dread about impending death I can worry about _soon_. Right now, I _lived_. Sure it doesn't mean anything to the observer, but it means the world to me.

* * *

 ** _Linden Norton, 40_**

 ** _District 11 Male_**

* * *

Alright, let's begin.

I leap off my pedestal and start toward the mouth of the cornucopia. I glance to my left, guffawing as Sarissa and Warren immediately dogpile the girl from Twelve. The Two boy is so far away, Four girl ain't even a Career in the traditional sense and Snow Island ain't a factor on the count of one of them being rogue and the female on _our side_. We barely need to worry about a _thing!_ Or so I _thought_ , as I immediately stumble to the ground. The culprit, the young man from One. I find myself immediately wreathing for air as his hands clasp around my neck and pins my midsection to the ground with his weight. _Awshitawfuck!_ I punch and claw but to no avail, as he raises my head upwards and forces it down onto the earth again and again. Each time, coupled with the lack of air, my vision doubles, _triples even._ My grip against his hands begin to falter as I gag for air.

 _Where the hell was the team?_

I receive my answer when Laelia grapples One by the neck, allowing much needed air to flood back into my lungs. I stumble to my knees, watching as the One stumbles to and fro, Laelia hitched on his back like a monkey. Grabbing her by the armpit, One slams Laelia frontward and proceeds to launch a flurry of stomps onto her torso as the younger girl wails in pain. I'm about to stumble forward, offer aid, when Chris and Gio beat me to it. Gio tackles One to the floor, feeding him punches while Chris drops to his feet and repeatedly strikes One with a silver object. When he stills, Gio tugs Laelia to her feet while Chris rushes over to me. Upon further inspection, he seems to be armed with a stun baton.

"You good Linden?" Chris asks, pushing me along as we make our way further into the horn's radius. I clear my throat, nodding while I turn to Laelia, who stumbles along with us.

"Thank you, Laelia." I pant, grinning as she nods with a slight grimace. Not gonna lie, I thought she was useless, but she pulled her weight for sure. We come to a running stop just before the mouth of the horn. Collecting an empty rucksack, I move to a nearby orange crate. Opening it, I quickly empty the contents into the bag.a small med-kit , two bags of rations, a knife, rope. I also secure a sickle from off the ground. All this would be good, for now.

Content with my items, I take a moment to glance around once more. The doctor from Five slips a rucksack over her back and sinks a knife into her boot pocket before starting over toward the Verona from Seven. I nearly unsheathe my sickle again when Aurelia speeds towards me, only to watch as she zips past me, calling out for the Four girl who waves back in reply as she rises to her feet and flees with her. Just feet away Lars from Nine finishes assembling his gear. He nods at me, which prompts me to confusingly return the notion back. It's odd...No one was fighting, besides the Careers who were giving chase to Twelve and Ricardo. I'm not complaining one bit.

I rise to my feet, just as Gio and the rest of the team does as well. "Are y'all ready to go?!"

They nod, and we immediately bank to the left of the horn, where Ludra waves at us from the bushes. I stumble to a stop when Chris lets out a curse, halting in place.

"What Chris?"

"Ludra needs a bag too!" Before I could stop him, he starts back toward the horn. I wave Gio and Laelia off, pivoting on my feet as I start toward Chris. Along the way, I collect a small knapsack that was light on contents but good enough for Ludra. When I reach him at the mouth of the cornucopia - a place only reserved for the Careers or the brave - I knock the pack from out of his hands and begin to tug him upward.

"Chris, are you _stupid_ , lets go I got a pack for her." the man was too nice for his own good. "She's from Snow Island, if she wants goodies, they'll give them to her."

I glance past him, seeing a figure move among the boxes.

"But-" I tug him down behind a crate before he could finish as an arrow clatters against the horn's steel behind him. To our north, the young man from One is jogging over toward us.

"Go, go!" I bark at Chris, collecting the crate's cover and lobbing it at the boy from Two, who ducks. I turn to join Chris towards the treeline, zigzagging to avoid Two's arrows. I feel a _sharp pain_ in my arm somewhere, but I pay it no mind.

"We should go back and take the cornucopia." Gio says. I shake my head. We may have numbers, but skills we _do not_ have.

"Let's go, run!" I bark again, gesturing for my allies to continue our trek further into the woods. All I wanted to do was be gone from this place, so I can live to fight another day.

* * *

 ** _Theilan Caldron, 34_**

 ** _District 6 Male_**

* * *

She didn't jump, she's okay! Thank the Gods, she's _okay_.

I leap off the pedestal, sprinting straight toward Wondr'a while ignoring the calls of my name a distance away. I've seen her sort so many times back in Six. The forlorn face, the distant eyes, the overall look of defeat on her body. She was about to _jump_. She could've ended it all at any time, but like anyone dealing with a crisis, all they need is someone who genuinely _cares_. I've seen her during training, spoken to her too. I had paid keen attention to her interview. I don't know the entire story, but I know enough to know that what she tried to do just now has merit, which means that she doesn't have many people back home who _do care._

"Wondr'a!" I yell toward her. She was still perched on her pedestal, arms folded and head downcast, all while everyone else has snapped into action. "Wondr'a!" I scream again, this time she perks up, gazing at me with teary, dejected eyes. I glance over two pedestals down to see Veradisia brawling with Warren and Sarissa. Who knows what would've happened if their public enemy number one wasn't there to take the heat off Wondr'a's vulnerable self? I extend a hand toward her, extending it further and forcefully tugging her down onto the ground when she slowly and shakily does the same. "What were you _thinking_!? Are you alright!?" I quiz her, jerking her by the shoulders while scanning around for potential dangers. Nothing, everyone is too preoccupied by the horn's loot or brawling near the pedestals in the case of Laelia and Thames. I frown when she stares back at me with impassive, empty eyes. That emotionless mask immediately shatters as she breaks out in sobs, covering her eyes. It reminded me of that night five years ago, on the Ambassador Bridge, with Candy Mullen, she broke down the same way. I immediately pull her into a hug, caring little about how limp she is in my arms.

I gently rub her back. "It's okay, it's alright..."

" _THEILAN!_ " a feminine voice shrieks. Something _hard_ slumps me in the shoulder, prompting a stinging sensation to quickly spread across my arm. I spin around to see Zahira fully equipped with a bag and a knife in her sheath. Words couldn't describe the anger on her face. "What the _fuck_ Theilan, you deviated from the plan!" she snaps, her brown eyes trembling with rage.

Trying to formulate words, I point toward Wondr'a. "Wondr'a...She-"

Zahira shakes her head, her eyes wide. "She what?!" she rages. Behind her, Ricardo joins the fray going on with the Careers and Vera. Zahira clutches me by the cheeks forcibly turning my head to face her. "What the _fuck_ are you doing?! Go get something and let's _go_!"

"You didn't get me one?" She could've collected something for me if she saw me preoccupied with Wondr'a. I would've done the same. Zahira doesn't think so, however. Her eyes squint as if I had asked the stupidest question on earth.

"Why should I?! What the fuc- GO GET SOMETHING, _HURRY UP_!"

"Right, _right!_ " I splutter, stumbling into a sprint as she shoves me forward towards the horn. On my way towards the cornucopia, I scoop up a large, light rucksack. As I stumble to a halt, I see that numerous tributes have already arrived at the mouth of the horn. Instead of the frantic brawls and slayings seen in previous years, everyone _ignores_ one another as they quickly assemble their gear. Different tributes cast weary glances toward one another, but no one makes any overt threatening moves.

"Aurelia!" Nautia cries, waving frantically from behind a crate. Aurelia zips past me, bounding over a crate to get to her ally. "I'm here!" Aurelia yells back.

"Laelia you okay?"

"Yeah Chris, I'm fine!"

"Hurry up and get something okay?"

Hermia jogs by me, groaning " _Tobi_..."

He levels his trident, following after her. "Why the hell not?!" he points it forward. "Let's go, I think I see Verona!"

I crack a smile at the scene. It looks like humanity is _winning_ so far. No one has _lost their inhibitions._

Just as I open the medium-sized crate, Kaviraya crashes next to me. Maybe he didn't see me on his jog over here, I wasn't sure. Eyeing him as he eyes me, tentatively I take from the left hand side, as he does so from the right. As I secure my pack over my back, my eyes dart upward, watching as Solomon opens a large crate and pulls out a crossbow, I gaze past Kaviraya and watch as Warren and Sarissa begin to sprint closer to the horn. I immediately jump to my feet and dart away, not before tapping Kaviraya and warning him about the Career's arrival.

"Let's go, hurry up!" Zahira screeches from beyond the pedestals. I'm about to breeze by the semi-circle when I spot Wondr'a curled up against her pod. I glance up at Zahira, who frantically waves me over. She didn't even bother coax Wondr'a to come with us? _Goddammit, I didn't even pack a bag for her!_

Without warning I tug Wondr'a up onto her feet and string her along with me. "Wondr'a lets go. You really don't want to be here, I promise you that." I pant, glancing back at her. It was as if she were still in another world, her eyes focused on the ground while her free arm squirms in the wind. When we finally join Zahira, she eyes Wondr'a and then me with an incredulous glare.

I could care _less_. I saved a life. It may or may not mean much down the line, but I still _saved a life,_ in the _Hunger Games_ no less.


	34. Day One - Part Two

**Metamorphosis: The 100th Hunger Games.**

 **Arena Day One - Part Two**

* * *

 _ **Pearlana Singh, 36**_

 _ **Head Gamemaker**_

* * *

That was... _Expected._

From my command turret, I swivel my chair from the north end of the room to the south end – towards the communications department where Gamemakers are tasked in handling broadcast procedures with the major networks, public relations, cooperation with Marceline and the main studio and so on. Before the consoles and workdesks was a wide holoscreen that took up the entirety of the wall. On it were scenes of various districts and locals within the Capitol itself.

 _"It seems that no was blood drawn in this 'bloodbath'!"_ goads Marceline, scratching her chin in apparent remembrance. _"The only time I can recall an event like this happening was during the early Games..."_

 _"The reactions to the launch were all the same though!"_ Yvette replies while gesturing to the various screens behind her. On cue, the screen is flooded with various montages across the nation of people launching out of their seats with cheers in the Capitol and Career districts. Or in the majority of lower districts' case, cheering for their respective tributes. _All_ launches were exciting, but it was reactions to the _results_ I was looking for.

With a snap of a finger, I grab the attention of a junior Gamemaker. "Hastings, blow up a Capitol feed. Play back from the gong sounding to the last of the tributes leaving the horn's radius."

" _Any_ feed Ma'am?" he asks, nodding as I offer a nod in reply. He swivels back to his workstation. "Right away, Ma'am." Hastings does just that, pulling up a feed from the Avenue of Tributes while minimizing the rest. The gargantuan crowds at the City Circle will provide ample sampling. Of course when the clock ticks to zero, their reactions are _volcanic_ for the opening minutes. The fighting - as sparse as it was - the sense of urgency as tributes collected various loot, _all_ served as memorable moments.

Though they were just not as ' _memorable'_ as the average viewer would expect for a _bloodbath_.

When everyone escaped the Games unscathed, minus one significant arrow wound and a few bruises, the crowd watched on in silence with a few boos here and there among curious chatter. "Scroll through the districts, inner to outer." I command, my eyes not leaving the screen. This was also the case in One and Two with Four and Snow Island being mixed bags as per usual. The results of this year's bloodbath were taken much better in the outer districts, as audiences in various city squares continue to cheer. This was opposite in other years, were most districts were stone faced having been eliminated so early on. A junior Gamemaker catches my eye as I watch him shake his head in apparent disappointment.

"Mr. Bright, is something the matter?" I ask, watching the young man stills as if he were a deer in headlights. I suppose he wasn't aware of being watched. I snicker silently, rolling a hand along to get him to proceed with answering my question. "Speak freely."

"It was okay...The 'bloodbath' I mean," Bright begins, his face scrounged in confusion. "But on the other hand, it's the _One Hundredth Games_...You'd think that it would've been _more_ action packed than that?"

 _"...We have to remember that this isn't an average Hunger Games. Are any of them average, really? All are different in their own unique way,"_ Marceline says, as if she were in the room, not in her studio talking to the viewers at-large. _"If we recall the insider scoops regarding tribute relations, this 'bloodbath' outcome was pretty predictable."_

I waggle a finger toward the screen. "Devereaux said it herself, Bright. We're dealing with _older_ , _wiser_ contestants. We can't expect the same haphazard results. Viewing twelve to eighteen years of Hunger Games fills a non-Career with _horrific_ _intrigue_ – at least for _me_ , maybe even for _you_ as well," I gesture to the Command Center in its entirety. "We're sitting in _this room_ aren't we? But I imagine a _lower_ district citizen would look at it much worse knowing that _they_ were on the chopping block." All one has to do is look at the trends. Post-HG 75 has seen non-Careers become _smarter_ , placing and scoring higher than the first generation. When you add adults who have been watching Hunger Games for the past half century, they know the Game well enough not to be haste in their movements as seen with this very recent display.

Bright, alongside some eavesdroppers, seem to understand this now as they nod along in agreement. "What do _you_ think, Ma'am?"

I shrug. "It was _expected_ , but still ' _surprising'_ all the same. You've seen the way they've interacted, alliances or not. Reluctance is a natural response. That'll slowly deteriorate over the next day or two, I imagine."

"What about the people?" asks another junior Gamemaker. What was it, her name...Quinn?

"A _temporary upset_ ," I reply with a dismissive shrug. "Every Games are different. Upsets happen every year and in different forms. All one can do, is _learn and build_."

"Won't the President be upset?" he asks with a quirked brow. I casually glance toward the communications officer – tasked with maintaining a line to the president and Peacekeepers staffing the arena - who sits over on the far right of the room. I then glance to the dormant red telephone on my command panel. I wasn't concerned one bit. If we had a Snow-like president in office, perhaps I'd be. Viondra trusts that I know what I'm doing and _I do._

 _"_ We've done good work over the past five years and will continue to do so. The President thinks so _too_." I answer with a wry grin. I swivel in my chair towards the north end of the room – back to operations – and observe the holomap and various screens showcasing the alliances fleeing the cornucopia. I focus attentively on Mr. Marcenas and Ms. Smith, who must've rubbed up against Piper's lucky clover. They could run, they could evade, but they'll tire eventually, becoming just another _blip_ in history. "Vi, Pax!?" I call out aloud, scooting backwards to allow their avatars to appear on my left and right. "Coordinate with the biome team. I want you guys to shake things up a little bit. Once you've come up with a plan, report back to me." I say to them, as with an elegant curtsy and a regal bow, they dissipate. Reclining back into my chair, I continue to gaze at the holoscreens before me.

They may have come out unscathed from the bloodbath, but the people need entertainment _one way or another..._

* * *

 _ **Solomon Kohli, 20**_

 _ **District 2 Male**_

* * *

I wasn't even being _addressed_ yet my head was _still pounding_.

"So that's it?!" Sarissa rages, her hands launching in the air only to crash down with an audible _slap._ She abruptly pivots on her heels from left to right, facing a medium-sized crate. She launches a foot into it, prompting Warren and Thames to jump as the contents spew out onto the grass. I don't jump however. Instead I roll my eyes and continue to peruse the crate in front of me. I'm surprised she hadn't broken her _foot_ , but then again the boots we were issued were quite sturdy. "No one died, _absolutely_ no one?!" she turns to Thames, who nurses some cuts and bruises on his face with a cotton swab and a mirror. "What the _hell_ were _you_ doing?!"

Scowling, Thames gestures to his face. "Trying to make a _play_? The _same thing_ as _you_ Sarissa. It's kind of hard to eliminate tributes when you're outside the cornucopia without decent weaponry to do the job..." his scowl grows deeper as he murmurs "And having to fend off _multiple tributes_ to boot..."

"Why are you getting so upset Sarissa?" Warren wonders, gulping as Sarissa cranes her head while standing in place, the nastiest of glares on her face. You'd think, with a look like that, she would've gutted him right then and there.

" _Think_ ," she presses, digging her index finger into her head for extra emphasis. Warren's confusion softens when he realizes the source of her anger. "If you're serious about bein' 'ere, _you'd be too!"_

"There's no use getting upset." Warren continues to reason, besides a slight grimace, ignoring her insult. "There's still a _full roster_ of tributes out there to hunt down."

"That works _both ways,_ Four." Sarissa continues with her back toward us as she presumably glares past the plates and toward the rolling hills and surrounding forests. "There shouldn't _be_ one."

"Let's talk about _your_ fumble," Thames snorts, glancing at his cotton, grimacing before applying another wad. Sarissa doesn't glance back at him. "You had Veradisia right there with Warren as backup. How in the hells did you flub that up–"As soon as the _thunk_ rang out, I glance up from my crate to see Thames with his legs spread open and a silver throwing knife dug into the crate between his legs. Just as fast as she threw, Sarissa was faced away from us, arms folded like idiot child who didn't get her way...Like _Arminda_ almost. Thames' expression of utter shock almost makes me guffaw, but directing my attention back to my loot calms me. Warren hopelessly pivots from Sarissa to Thames, who adjusts himself on the crate while glaring her down.

"... _Really_ guys, like, come _on_..."

"Sol?" Thames calls, prompting me to once again, peer up from my crate in annoyance. His face morphs from hope to anger within a blink of an eye. " _Say something_ , why the _fuck_ do you keep _standing around_ like an _Avox?!_ This is _your alliance_ too you know?!"

I let out a barely audible scoff. _Was it really?_ It wasn't so much an 'alliance' in my eyes, moreso a loose collection of the 'best' tributes – a _traditional_ occurrence. A 'traditional occurrence' that was _overrated_ in my books. This wasn't _'my alliance'_. Unfortunately, it's not like I can venture off into the woods and shack up with another tribute. They'd go for the attack before I could get out a word. Though she was being a baby about it, Sarissa was right. Having all the tributes make it out was a _bad_ thing. Who knows what their plans might be now that all alliances are intact. Though I have a bag nearly ready to go if need be I don't want to strike it out just yet, not so prematurely.

"Can you all _shut the hell up_ for a _moment_ and _relax_?" I say aloud, meeting Sarissa's gaze. Her intimidation won't work on me. "Yeah, including _you_ Sarissa. The more you guys _bitch and moa_ n over stupid shit like _kills_ , the more we lose cohesion – as little of it as we have." I turn to Thames now, meeting his gaze head on. "We can't afford to get jumped by a group of them and be distracted because of a few mean words being said. All Hunger Games are different, this one more than the rest. Get _used to it._ "

Sarissa lets out an angered huff, collecting a singular spear before spinning on her heels and walking away. I shake my head, moving off my crate as I begin to follow her. "Where are you going?"

" _Where do you think?_ " she snaps brusquely.

I sigh, taking the chance to look her over. "With a singular spear, no kit, food, _nothing_? You'd be dead by the _end_ _of the night."_ She halts in place, twirling to face me. I meet her halfway, standing in her space so that hopefully, the cameras and microphones don't pick us up. Our 'fans' watching have probably already lost faith in us, and I don't blame them if they did. "Quit being a _fool_ and come back to the horn. You'll have your day in the arena soon. What would your students think seeing you act the way you are – the _bipolar opposite_ you tell them to?" her eyes tremor with anger. I blink. "Anger doesn't negate the fact that I'm _right_. We need you _alive_ , so we can try and salvage the situation."

And would you look at that, Sarissa _can_ be reasoned with, as her features soften and her shoulders sag from their once taught position. "Alright," she replies, licking her lips. " _Ok_."

"Thank you kindly." I say with a nod, gesturing back to the horn. When we arrive back towards a dejected Thames and a weary Warren, I gesture to all the unmolested loot. "While you guys were here _bickering_ , look at all these things left untouched. Dig in, _find something_. We'd be lifted up in _claws_ by now if the other tributes had sense."

The three of them begin moving. Look at that, maybe I _should_ speak up more often. I watch Thames and Sarissa share cautious glances toward one another as we all dig into an individual crate. My rucksack was filled with plenty of food already, so it was mostly the trinkets I was interested in. A flashlight was always nice to have...Earmuffs, interesting...The next item however, makes me genuinely laugh with joy, causing my 'allies' to turn my way with expressions of utter surprise on their mugs. Splayed out from one hand to another was none other than a _ghille suit._ A heavy, dark-green material that intimates shrubbery, perfect for the environment we currently find ourselves in.

Sarissa peers upward, snickering as she continues to rifle through her crate. "No fuckin' way..."

"More like a _yes way_." I reply, tossing them each a suit. Look at us...bonding over trinkets.

Thames grins. "Well, would you look at _that_?" Even Warren sports a smug grin as he caresses the material. Sarissa's suit however remains cast aside by her boot, a stupid grin spread across her lips. I'm about to inquire on why when she pulls out... _air?_ We watch as she wraps herself in the supposed garment as her entire body becomes one with the environment, besides the 'feet' of her boots and her hands. An invisibility cloak perhaps? Seems effective, but you can see her outline when she moves. That, and her exposed appendages.

"Give me one!" Warren says with outstretched hands.

Sarissa pulls down her hood. "That was the only one in the crate. And I'm not seein' any other untouched crates."

That's when we turn our attention inside the mouth of the horn. Thank Snow I'm the one closest to the only untapped box that sits way inside. Still, I speed walk toward it, not taking any chances. It was an orange container. I've watched enough Games to know that large crates were going to bear exceptional loot. As I turn the latch and flip the lid open, I immediately discard my shitty crossbow, caring less as it clatters against the cornucopia's steel. "Oh shit..."

Inside this magnificent crate, on multiple tiers, was _the most_ sophisticated bow I have ever laid eyes on. It was sleek, with black finishing, a scope on the side with additional sighting and multiple arrows with different color designations.

* * *

 **Donna Ludra Cordillera, 49**

 **Snow Island Female**

* * *

That was surprisingly easier than I thought I'd be.

I'm relieved when we finally stumble to a halt after running for what seems to be minutes. As everyone clutches their knees or drops to the ground, I stumble over to a tree and lean onto it for dear life. Leaning turns into sitting as I allow myself to regain my bearings. And as I sit down, trying to find a position comfortable enough to rest in, I can't help but let out a giggle that grows into a boisterous laugh, boisterous enough to garner the attention of Laelia who turns my way with a cocked brow and a confused grin.

"What's so funny, Donna Ludra?" she asks me, letting out an airy and confused giggle as well.

"Nothing, cariño," I reply, tempering my laugh down to a gentle snicker as I shake my head. "Gracias a dios estoy vivo..."

"Oh..." Laelia nods vigorously. "I hear you on that one. Yo también..."

I smile weakly. I had no right invoking God's name regarding anything, not anymore. If anything this is punishment for what I dabbled in back home. I have a decent cushion with these people around among other mercies which made my still being alive possible. It was only going to get harder from here on out, but at least I'm still alive to _try._

"Is everyone alright?" Chris asks, nodding once he receives tired affirmatives in reply. He extends a hand toward Linden, who refills his canteen by the riverside. "Linden, don't' _do that_!"

Too late, the Eleven man takes a gargantuan swig of the river water, sighing in relief once his thirst is quenched. "When was the last time they killed off tributes using poisoned water?!" Linden says with a dismissive wave. He then pats his stomach. "It hasn't exploded yet? So it's drinkable in my books." Chris and Laelia exchange looks and shrug before joining Linden by the river. I follow Laelias' gaze toward Gio, who seems tense. The young Five man gazes off to where the cornucopia would be if it weren't a mile or two away.

"You're making me uneasy, standing around like that." I say to him, inwardly seething with annoyance when he ignores me.

Chris notices Gio, frowning while brandishing his ax. "What's the problem Gio?"

"Gio thinks we should get after the Careers..." Linden mutters, taking another sip from his canteen.

"Why not, that's a great idea!" I find myself spitting my water back into my own canteen upon hearing that. Taking on the Careers, are they _loco_?! At least Laelia seems somewhat hesitant to engage in such a plan, a deep frown replacing the resting grin on her lips.

"Do you think we could do that?" she asks, hesitantly glancing around the circle. "You know...Take them out _successfully_?"

"Of course," Gio replies, settling down for the first time since we've rested. "Four of them against _five_ of us sounds decent to me. And if you count nighttime on our side, it could work."

"Yeah, ' _could'_ work," I scoff. "You're talking about fighting _experienced_ people here."

"We need to put our high scores to use," Gio counters, leveling his mace. "Maybe not _yours,_ but _ours_. I don't like it either, but we're the biggest alliance here and we need to start acting like it soon...Maybe, we should have already _had_." My eyes flicker to the other members of our group, frowning when he receives tentative nods in return. He's ' _right'_ but it doesn't mean that what he says is right for _me!_ I spare a glance around the area in general, wondering how many cameras were focused in on this conversation – and there _were cameras_. Of course _they_ would be looking to us as the group who tries to make some moves in lieu of the Careers. Maybe some have already discounted us as a weak assortment of tributes just banding together to stay alive – not a group to be noted – which I don't mind _at all_. I don't _care_ about being viewed as a ' _coward'_. I'm in the Games, not them. What I have right now is _ideal_ – four cushions to shield myself – and Gio is trying to fuck that up!

"I mean...It makes _sense_ ," Linden says with a shake of the head. He places his hands on his hips, stretching. "I don't like it, but it makes _sense_."

"It should be pretty easy, like I just said." Gio adds. His tone and features scream uncertainty. Maybe he's playing up false confidence for the cameras perhaps? "Not all of them would be up and ready to go if we all just...rushed them?"

All of them are nodding now, even Laelia. I let a silent sigh escape my lips, plopping my hands on my knees. I try to come up with a retort of sorts when I see my _saving grace_ jutting out Linden's bicep. It takes everything within me not to guffaw with joy. Besides a coy grin, I point to the arrow. "You can't fight with your arm in the condition it's in, Linden."

"Huh, what are you talkin' about...?" Linden glances at the wound on his arm, his brow cocking up and down in surprise. " _Oh shit_...Oh yeah, _right_ , I was shot while I was savin' your _goofy ass._ " He snips, shaking his head at a shrugging Chris. "It barely hurt until you pointed it out, Donna Ludra."

"Make a fist?" Laelia asks, nodding as Linden does just that, hissing in pain. The Eleven man glances at Chris with an annoyed look.

Chris rubs the back of his head, a sheepish smile on his lips. "My bad Linden...Sorry man."

"Yeah, well, I could've gotten _killed,_ " He raises his arm up, flashing the wound for all to see. "I'll take this instead."

"You _could get_ killed if you go forward with the proposition we were just discussing." I pipe up, a little too eagerly if you ask me. Glancing around, no one seems to catch on. "We need to sort that arm out before it gets infected. The quicker we do it, the faster you can recover like it was nothing." I stand up and walk toward Linden, observing his arm. Besides the blood pool, it was a clean wound. Though I _wish_ it had gone through the bone, rendering him out of action for a day or two and that idiot plan of theirs ruined, it was a mere _flesh wound._ It'd be enough to make him sore, sore enough to think twice about fighting a Career with his arm the way it is which is _good enough_ for me.

"Does anyone have any medical supplies? I may not be a doctor, but I have enough medical training to sort this out." I ask aloud, causing the others to rummage through their gear and raise their heads with collective nods. "Good. Maybe we could sort that wound out before deciding on any course of action. Also, perhaps we could do this in a more _secure_ location, _away_ from the cornucopia?"

They spring into action, stuffing their medical supplies into my bag as we begin our migration elsewhere. I continue to observe Linden's wound on one side while Gio offers a hand on Linden's shoulder on the other side. He gives me an unreadable look – for a little _too long_ if you asked me. But no matter, for that _asnal_ idea is on the backburner where it _belongs_.

* * *

 _ **Maia Clear, 19**_

 _ **District 3 Female**_

* * *

"Say, has anyone seen my jerky? I _swear_ I was about to take one out..." Chris asks aloud.

"Maybe you _ate em all_ already." Linden teases, to the amusement of everyone else.

Chris snorts. "I have _no rebuttal_. It's probably back in my pouch."

Smirking, I stuff another stand of beef jerky into my mouth, relishing in its smoky, peppery taste. Finch Emerson, HG 74, was a _genius_. Like a mouse, live right under your hosts, picking off them every now and then. I'll be sure not to eat any of their berries, however.

Chris – none the wiser – and his allies laugh off his missing food, as they begin moving deeper into the shrubbery along the river. Though I doubt she could see me, I wince back into the confines of the tree when Laelia spares one last cautious glance back to their former rest stop. When Geronimo calls for her, she immediately pivots on her boots and rejoins her allies. If I were more desperate – more _naïve_ – I would've clambered down from this tree and ask to join them. Seeing them like that, so... _'well off'_ , I can't help but feel jealous. A firm shake of the head is enough to dispel any feelings of doubt. _All_ _alliances_ end up in tears. Laelia's will be no different, especially with one as _loose_ as hers. I made up my mind to do this _solo_ and I need to _own_ that. There's no room for stupid emotions like 'longing' or 'friendship' and I was right to let Laelia – who has those in abundance – go.

When the coast is clear I quietly make my way down the tree, pausing at the last set of branches just in case they or any other tribute decides to wander by. With the coast clear, I slowly inch my way onto the forest floor while continuing to eye the shrubbery Laelia had disappeared into. I waste no time fading into the root-shrouded den that was now my abode within this arena. I'm elated that they decided to move on, or else they probably would've found it if any of them had a keen eye. If I'm lucky, I'll have plenty more hiding spots just like this throughout the arena. Zenobia Rivendell, HG 76, if one resting spot is compromised, make sure to have a backup location. Probably home to a bear once upon a time, the den was spacious but _comfortable_ it was not.

I wasn't expecting _Training Center-like_ accommodations, but if I could, I'd like to _not_ lay my head down on _dirt._ Funnily enough, I glance up to see a camera embedded into the tree somehow. There goes any semblance of _privacy_.

I sigh sharply, plastering a shamefaced smile onto my face. "Could one of you spare some money for sleeping gear?" _Silence._ Seconds go by without the telltale chime of a sponsor gift. I shrug. Would they really want to sponsor a girl who turned tail and ran when the gong went off? I wouldn't, in all honesty. "I guess I'll have to earn your money then? Fair enough." I reach behind me, unlatching the pouch to retrieve the green poncho issued to me. I swap the blouson with the poncho. I welcome the cool air that envelops me when I shed myself of the heavier garment. I could do less with warmth at the moment. And besides, the coats stick out like sore thumbs against the green of the arena.

And I _don't_ want to stick out for what I have planned.

But in the meanwhile, I cautiously leave the confines of my den and venture out into the arena proper. I take the time to take in the environment, trying to pinpoint why exactly are we wearing such a mash up of clothing. The terrain right now is that of a typical forest...well, not exactly typical. _Everything_ was pristine, from the crystal clear river systems, the clear blue skies dotted with cotton candy-like clouds, the nearly identical trees varying from evergreen, oak...pear – _wait_ , a _pear tree_?! I double take, zipping toward the tree with earnest and begin plucking pieces of fruit from its branches. They were ripe and ready to be eaten right here and now. I pause short of sinking my teeth into one. Just in case, I use my nails to split it open and smell the inside. It smelled like any other pear. I shrug, taking a bite of the fruit with no reservations.

If Laelia and her alliance can drink the river water, then the fruits would be just fine... _for now._ If they plan to alter the weather, these fruits won't be around soon. So, I gather five more pieces and place them in the pouch on my belt before moving on.

Not before long I find myself on the eastern outskirts of the cornucopia, shielded by the shrubbery. I focus on the immense, lush oak tree that grows on top of the cornucopia before scanning the area below it. The horn and its surrounding area _looks clear_? My stomach low to the ground, I slink my way to the outermost pedestal, my inner conscious shrieking at me to turn around and leave. If I did that, I'd be considered a throwaway tribute – a _nobody_. At least now, the viewers will see me as a tribute that takes risks – a tribute to _support_. Multiple Hunger Games have taught me this.

It's when I reach the pedestal that Sarissa emerges from the mouth of the horn. I immediately hug the hulking metal, making myself as small as possible. I watch as in her hands, she heaves crates while lumbering toward the pond. Like a confused puppy, Warren Holt follows after her.

"What are you doing Sarissa?" He asks. I glance down for a brief moment, elated that a _knife_ was hidden within the strands of grass right along the base of the pedestal. _Now we're getting somewhere._ I sheathe it quickly, returning my attention back to the Careers.

"What does it _look like_ Four, I'm dumpin' these." I glance toward the pond, where Solomon and Thames prod around with spears.

"It's deep enough!" Thames calls out. "If we want to access them, we could. It'd be a little trifling, but you could manage."

Warren's hands shoot up into the air. "What if we need them?!"

Sarissa plops a crate into his arms, prompting Warren to nearly topple to the ground. "You're a Four, _dive for 'em._ "

So, I watch painstakingly as they place all unwanted equipment into the pond. They reinforce the mouth of the horn with spears fashioned as stakes. They did further work, but I don't know what, as it was done _inside_ the horn. There was no way I could get at those without a hassle or getting caught...or killed.

"What now?" Warren asks.

"We go out and see what this place has to offer." Sarissa answers. "And maybe, we'll get someone along the way."

I continue to watch with bated breath as the four of them deliberate and then slink off into the forest, following the pond's flow. I don't _dare_ get up, not until at least a few minutes had passed. Too many prior tributes had died being lulled into a false sense of security. Even then, I begin to slink on my belly around the length of the cornucopia. My chest thumping a mile a second, my eyes still fixate on the area they disappeared in. I let out a shaky sigh and I pick up my pace, slinking from pedestal to pedestal. As I do this, I see the entirety of the horn's mouth in general, which bared resemblance to a mutt's jaw in the way the spears jut out. There was _no_ getting in there for sure. I make my way toward the tail of the horn until I'm at the side of the pond. Again, as clear as day, you could see branches, the fish, the rocks...the _loot_. I strip off my poncho, leaving only my wetsuit and utility belt. I triple check my hair, which was secured in a tight bun. Though I was always a straight bronze on the swim team, I imagine it'll be more than enough to poke around long enough to grab an item or two.

I glance up toward the sky knowing that somewhere, there was a camera drone watching. I grin. It felt... _good_ , pushing my limits the way I am. Rafaela Novia was _right_. All one has to do is shut off your mind, do your business and _get out_ all while showing off your strengths.

And it seems I have quite the _sneak_ in me.

* * *

 _ **Zahira Kazimirova, 33**_

 _ **District 6 Female**_

* * *

I couldn't _believe_ him.

Arms folded, I continue to trudge behind Theilan and our latest 'addition', Wondr'a Okafor of District 11. Like a doting mother, Theilan continues to console her even though it's been _hours_ since we've leapt off our plates. Yes, the launch was _great_. It was probably the greatest – _luckiest_ – launch I've ever seen in all my years of watching the Hunger Games. It was the perfect mixture of less Careers and reluctant tributes, which allowed me to secure my things and get out without a scratch. What I was angry at that principle of him not adhering to what we agreed on – us protecting each other while we secure our things and getting the hell out. What if I was injured or even _killed_ while he was over by the pedestals babying Wondr'a?

If things were any different, I could've lost the chance to see my boys again all because a woman who _wasn't_ from home was having a breakdown.

Finally, after an hour or two of silence and doting over Wondr'a, Theilan finally falls back to my pace. Wondr'a, her head downcast, continues forward as if she didn't care or notice he'd left her side. I pretend to pay him no mind, fishing out my cat eye glasses and placing them onto my face. I take in the area around us. We're on an incline, the base of a mountain by the looks of it. A scraggy riverbed to our left a foliage to our right. If we find flatland, we'd be set for the night. I take a peek back behind us to see the cornucopia in the distance, dwarfed by the giant oak tree on top of it. Certainly that tree has something to do with the arena. What exactly, I'm not sure. The sunshine and warmth since launch has subsided, rendering the arena cooler - much cooler. The sky was now a bleak grey, as if it were about pour rain. Still, the arena outfits given to us hold up pretty well.

"Are you okay, Zahira?" he asks uneasily, as if he _doesn't_ know the answer already.

"I _would be_ okay, if I didn't have to worry about Six's chances being in _jeopardy_ due to your actions." I trill with faux cheer, shrugging. "Sure, we're fine, but next time, we _won't be_ and you have to be ready for that."

Like an automaton, Wondr'a continues to walk without reaction even though the conversation was loud and clear for her to hear.

"I _understand_." He replies softly, gesturing to Wondr'a. "But she doesn't _deserve_ to go out like that. I had a chance to help her and I _did_. I won't apologize for that."

"She _isn't_ our ally." I reply dryly. She seems – well _is_ – a nice person, her interview and during training proved that. But she refused us. She seemed to have a rough go at it back in Eleven but aren't we _all_ in a rough patch? I have all legitimacy to leap off my pedestal too, but I'm not waiting out for any of _these people_ to talk me out of it.

Aggravated, Theilan shakes his head. "She's with us _now_ isn't she?"

"Not on her own accord." I retort.

"She would've left by now if she didn't want to be here."

" _Okay_ , she's here to stay I guess," I rebut flippantly, shooting my hands into the air. "But you two better get switched _on_ before you get switched _off_ , capisce?"

Before Theilan can retort, Wondr'a suddenly drops to her knees and _vomits_. Like the good counselor he was, he immediately rushes to Wondr'a's side. I sigh sharply while automatically bringing my rucksack to my front as I march over, gently grab her by the elbow and sit her on a rock near the rushing river. Here I was, tapping into my earned resources for Wondr'a. This is the role I want to play after all, the _supporter._ But right now, I feel like I'm juggling that role with the ' _leader'_ and ' _provider'_ one as well. Maybe even the ' _fighter'_. Could I do it, yes, but _I don't want to._ I'd rather leave the directing to either one of these two, but right now _neither_ seems to be in the right mind for it.

"What was that all about," I ask, maintaining eye contact as my hands deftly maneuver through the bag to retrieve the med kit. "...Nerves?" She nods, her eyes slightly downcast while watching my hand as I plop out a Cyclizine pill. "This'll quell your nausea."

"But it'll make me... _Tired._ " She murmurs, accepting the pill regardless.

I quirk my brow, remembering that she was a poindexter in her own right. I shrug. "A fair trade off, I'd say. I'd rather be tired – sleeping it off tonight – than puking my guts out while losing water and energy..."

She swallows the pill immediately, downing it with a light sip from her canteen. It's then when she looks me in the eyes with her gleaming brown ones. " _Thank you,_ Zahira." She says softly in a chirpy yet sad tone. Even as I stifle it, the cringe seeps through. Her curly, shoulder-length hair, the baby face, she was three years my junior yet she reminded me of a _teenager_.

I shrug. If she were to get back into a right frame of mind, she'd be a great ally to have _and_ preserve. "It's second nature...sort of."

"I'm sorry if I'm provin..." she swallows, gesturing with her hands as if she were trying to conjure up the proper words. "To be a _bother_ to y'all..."

"You're not a ' _bother'_ to us, Wondr'a," Theilan pipes up, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You just need to settle down a little. I'm sure you have plenty of people back home and you deserve a chance to get back to them."

"...What he said. Though on top of words, I enjoy _tangibles_ too." I add, grinning from ear to ear. "If you help us set up camp for the night, all will be forgiven. You are the _bohemian_ after all so this arena is basically your oyster."

Wondr'a grins, only to frown as we all stir at the telltale, quizzical tune of violins and woodwinds that drifts through the air. Wondr'a jumps up, startled when Vi appears on the rock with her. The 'little girl', wearing a yellow slicker, raises a Thermos toward us in greeting accompanied by a pleasant grin.

 _"Oh, I wouldn't be setting up any camps just yet."_ She says coyly.

Theilan steps forward cautiously. "Why's that?"

The male half of the unsetting holographic duo, Pax, appears from on a rock in the river with a rod in hand. _"Usually, we'd allow tributes the day to get accustomed to their new environments,"_ he says, 'struggling' to reel a fish in from the river.

 _"But alas, the people's thirst for action has been...unsated,"_ Vi says. _"An unusual occurrence, but a totally understandable one at that."_

"...Y'all? We...We got a _problem_ here..." Wondr'a murmurs. The world around us, once lush with beautiful greenery, was slowly being enveloped by an ominous fog so thick you could paint a wall with it. As the haze slowly creeps our way, I unsheathe my knife in anticipation.

"Stick togeth..." As I turn to see them, all that greets my vision is fog. The holograms are gone as well, but their voices still resonate through the area.

 _"The people demand entertainment,"_ says Vi.

 _"And who are we to not give it to them?"_ adds Pax.

 _"Especially if we have the power to make it so?"_ says Vi.

 _"I do hope they're 'switched on', Vi."_

 _"Something tells me they are, Pax."_

Their tune is gone, replaced by the rumble and pitter-patter of rain. "Wondr'a, _Theilan_?!" I cry out, stumbling through the fog in hopes to bumping into either one. Instead, I'm only feeling empty air as their cries for me are growing distant by the second. I begin to stumble away, _where_ , _anywhere_. I was hoping for a situation like this to occur _later_ in the Games, but it was happening _right now._ For now, Wondr'a and Theilan are on their own. I need to worry about _me_ right now.

Regardless of the fog that could drive me into a Career, tree, or off a _cliff_ , my stumbling turns into sprinting when a series of howls break out a little _too close_ for comfort.

* * *

 _ **Russett Gilmour, 29**_

 _ **District 8 Male**_

* * *

Whatever happened to the rest period?!

Huffing and puffing, I continue to cautiously stumble through the fog, scared out of my mind that my next step could see me fall and break my _neck_. It reminded me of the factory incident, the _thickness_ of the flames and how out of place they were.

I shakily secure gauze around my mangled forearm, chewed up by those muttated wolves they've sicced on me. Once wrapped, I withdraw another knife from my bandoleer as another series of howls pierces the air. All this was a ploy by the Gamemakers no doubt. Their way of entertaining the crowds since no one apparently fell today. I didn't hear any cannons following my escape from the cornucopia. There was always an endgame to their tricks. What was theirs with _this one?_

My thoughts are immediately put on hold when one of the wolf mutts – a vicious thing with pitch black fur and yellow eyes – breaks through the haze and attempts to pounce on me. My knife miraculously finds his target in the form of its head mid-lunge, prompting it to crash to the floor – dead. I scramble to retrieve the knife from the fallen wolf, only for three more to appear before their fallen pack member's body as they snarl at me and 'puff out' their fur. I glance back, pivot on my boots and haul ass toward the clearing where the fog seems less concentrated. I'm on a one-track mind right now, my vision focused solely on the clearing. The clearing has _safety,_ safety means _I Iive_. Living means being one step closer to going _home._ Through the ragged breaths and pounding chest, I hear commotion and then suddenly, I'm derailed off my track by a blur.

I tumble to the floor and recover just as fast, withdrawing my knives just as Chris readies his ax. Wait...

" _Chris?"_ I splutter, relaxing my stance.

Chris nods. "Hey hey Russ, how's it goin?!" he pants, grinning tiredly. His grin melts into a frown as he rushes forward, shoving me aside as he swats a wolf out the air, sending blood flying every which way. I feel a pressure on my ankle, only to look down and see a wolf trying to tear through my leg. These boots were tough as _Snow's heart_. I forcefully plop my knife into its skull, kicking it aside as it yelps in pain. Chris and I are back to back now. Our weapons at the ready as a handful of wolves slowly surround us on every side.

Chris' shoulder rubs against mine. "Russ, lemme just say that I'm _so glad_ to see you right now, man!"

"Not gonna lie... _me too_!" I say, nodding in reply. Who knew what would've happened if he wasn't here to help me fend these things off. I thought the loner route was for me, but I'd be lying if I said that having Chris by my side _wasn't_ a relief. I'm treated to another surprise when he presses a long knife into my hand.

"Here ya go," he pants. "You'll have more reach with this!"

It was a curvy, pointy thing. It'll do the job in spades. And it does do the job, as a swipe to the eye of an approaching wolf sends it yelping away. "Thanks!"

"Yeah, don't mention it." He strikes an attacking wolf to death with two chops. "Can we get moving now, Russ?!"

I let out a hesitant laugh. "Whenever you're ready, I'm ready!"

Back to back, we fight our way down the incline onto flat land. The nighttime coupled with the haze makes it difficult to keep track of the wolves that circle around us. Right now, we just swipe at every shadow that twitches. It's working in our favor too, I don't know how many of these things I've killed but I know for a fact that the number is over a dozen.

Chris buries his ax into the skull of a wolf. "It feels good killin' these things."

"Likewise." I reply back, jabbing a wolf in the gut. I don't mind putting these things down one bit. If anything, they serve as target practice for the real thing down the road.

As we slowly make our way through the woods, we both startle at the yells of a female tribute not too far off from our position. From the corner of my eye, Chris mirrors my gesture, and tugs me along toward the cries. "That might be Laelia or Donna Ludra!" he says with an optimistic tone. All I can do is watch as he ferries me toward the voice, his grip was like a vice.

As we rush toward a clearing, the cries as clear as day, I see that it wasn't Laelia or Donna like Chris had thought, but it was _Alana_. Chris points toward her with his ax. "Look, it's your partner! Don't worry, Miss, we're on our way!" She was all by herself, on a rock, frantically jutting her spear toward any wolf who tried to push their luck. She looked worse for wear, though the evening darkness didn't show the full extent of any injury. If Chris weren't dragging me toward her, I would've _left her_. Unfortunately, she was _competition_ now. All last week, Alana Alana Alana is all I ever heard. I had no hard feelings, but with her gone, maybe they would finally look towards me as someone capable, instead of some _author_.

If it weren't for her books, _I_ would be the talk of the pair not _her._

Still, when she spots us, her face brightens. "You have no idea how glad I am to see people again!"

We shoo them back, leaping onto the rock with her. Our labored pants are as loud as mutts' barks and growls. "At this point, I'd be happy to be shacked up with _Sarissa Levesque_ if it meant I wasn't facing these things alone." Chris jokes.

"She'd probably _toss you to them_ if it meant getting a kill." I say. I'd rather be alone than in a temporary alliance with a Career.

Chris chuckles dryly. "...Well, when you put it _that way_..."

Our banter ceases when the wolves go on permanent attack. They leap up, we strike them down. No matter how much blood peppers my face or how much my muscles ache with each swing, this continues until nothing but dead mutts lay before us. As Alana slays the final wolf with a jab to the skull, the fog quickly dissipates and the rain is reduced to spitting rain. The mutt bodies too _dissipate,_ dissolving into puddles of maroon blood... _Fucking Capitol and their crazy inventions._

Tentatively, we leap off the rocks. I, alongside Alana and Chris, relax our posture once no sound of commotion could be heard.

"So uh...What happened to your allies?" I ask, sheathing my weapons and immediately retrieve my canteen, unscrewing the cap and draining the bottle of its contents.

"We were walking and the fog just... _crept in_." Chris replies, shakily raising his canteen to his lips. "It was _ridiculous_."

"I share the same story," Alana adds. "No matter how close their cries were, I could never _find them_. Next thing I knew I was _alone_ with these things nipping at my behind."

I secure my canteen once again. "Oh."

"If its fine by you guys, I don't mind partnering?" Chris says, his eyes darting to myself and Alana.

"Sure..." I sigh, shrugging. In all honestly, I don't feel exactly safe being on my own out here, not after that mutt attack. And besides, I'd love to turn off my brain for the night, let someone else share the burden of making a camp among other worries. And it's not like they're untrustworthy, unlike _everyone else._

I turn back toward Alana, who has a shovel in hand, as she begins _digging._ Why though? "Alana, what are you doing?"

"Oh you know, just getting started on a little project I was discussing with my allies before all that business with the mutts happened." She replies casually. "Chris, do you have tarp or something? Good, do you mind setting up a little shelter or something? Russett, do you mind gathering some branches, preferably with plenty of _leaves?"_

* * *

 _ **Thames Montgolia, 26**_

 _ **District 1 Male**_

* * *

I'd say that this is a fair trade off.

With an overhand swing downward, I strike an attacking mutt, effectively splitting the beast in two with a sickening squelch. Its blood, warm, sticky and pungent, effectively coats my face and nearly prompts me to gag in disgust. I have no time to gag, as another wolf hastily pounces onto my back, sending us both crashing onto the ground. I give him my forearm to chew on, positioning my katana just before its chest before plunging the blade inside. My katana prods out the mutt's back, caked with its blood as the wolf immediately goes limp. Using my boot for additional leverage, I force the husk off my blade before rolling onto a singular knee. I cut diagonally into one mutt's skull then immediately pivot the blade into the other mutt's front legs as I scramble onto my feet. Another wolf gnashes its teeth, and ears my boot into its jaw and then another into its belly as it yelps in pain.

Yes, we totally deserve this because we _fucked_ up. What were people to expect when the Career pack this year was _barebones_ and the other tributes were so _chummy_ with one another? I shake my head, taking off the head of another wolf with a swing of my blade. I wouldn't even say ' _we'_. _I_ _tried_ to salvage the situation, attempting to recruit Lars. _I tried_ attempting to allow Aurelia and Nautia into the group. And who stopped me in all those attempts? _Sarissa Levesque._ Warren goes with the flow and Sol acts as if he _isn't even there._ One day, he might not even be.

I immediately turn tail, pumping my legs as hard as I can as I attempt to make my way southwest, back towards the cornucopia. They've taught about her type back in the academy, the 'Domineering Two' – they'd call tributes like her. 'My way or the highway' types who'd gut you if you dared to question their decisions. Now that she's an adult, she was the _queen_ of the archetype. _Everything_ was her way or the highway. Killing her would only lessen my position against the other tributes, who outnumber us. So placating her is the only way of ensuring that we – _I_ – remain viable amongst the contenders and eventually _win._

Path in front of me was clear, clear enough to see Lars Malatic of District 9 hacking away at his own pack of wolves. I immediately halt in place, slewing another wolf mutt while keeping the others at bay by extending my katana toward them. Clearly this was an attempt to get other tributes to fight one another, but perhaps maybe I could do the _opposite_? _Leaving_ Sarissa and the rest of them was a possibility. But when was the last time a Career dabbled with a non-Career tribute? Snow Island and Four can do that because they _barely count_ as one of us in some years. _I'm_ a _One_ , how would that look for _me_ and my family if I were to pull a Plutarch and truck with a District 9 tribute of all people? Alliances are _temporary_ after all.

After slaying another mutt, we lock eyes for a brief second. For a criminal like him, I imagine he'll look at our union the same way – with the warranty lasting as long as he feels its _needs to._ _I_ can't risk that.

So, while continuing to lock eyes, I continue toward the cornucopia despite the fog, despite the additional mutts hounding me down. Utilizing years of Career training and calisthenics, I effortlessly bob and weave through the trees without breaking a _sweat_. My heart soars as I break through the heavy fog to see the cornucopia and the giant oak tree looming on top of it. In the dimly lit mouth, I see three figures fending off their own wolves. _Great, everyone is already back._

One wolf nips at my heels, causing me to stumble forward but thankfully doesn't send me tumbling to the ground. I increase my pace as much as my body allows, vaulting over the outermost pedestal to shake up my canine pursuers. Sheathing my katana, I brace myself and then leap up the horn's steel side, grunting as I power myself over the slippery, steel edge. A lucky wolf clutches my foot within its mouth, but a swift kick is enough to topple it over the edge. Groaning I stagger toward the front of the cornucopia, dropping down and swinging in. Warren pulls me forward just as a wolf pushes it's claw through the protective barrier we made, nearly slashing the back of my head open.

"Thames..." Warren laughs, clapping my back while fending off a mutt with a spear. "I thought you were _mutt food_ , man."

I smile at him, shaking my head. "Not yet Warren, not yet."

Mostly uncaring about my arrival, both Sol and Sarissa continue fending off the mutts. It was the latter who was a little _too dedicated_ to the task as with each mutt she felled, she made sure to strike it again, sometimes _three times_ , producing blood splatter. They weren't human tributes, which probably amplified her anger even more.

"Now that' the bands reunited..." Warren grunts, jabbing his spear down the mouth of a wolf, resulting in a plume of blood to erupt out of it. "What now?"

The three of us stir as Sarissa lets out an angered shriek. She tosses her bloodied, bent spear aside, collecting a machete as she stomps toward the protected mouth of the cornucopia and kicks two spears out. "Sarissa, what are you doing?!" Warren yells, but it's no use. One wolf mutt – bigger than the rest of the wolves with a brown coat _–_ comes rushing through, earning a chop and stomp to the head from the angered Two. She steps over the body and swings this way and that, prompting the mutts to cower back but still retain their deadly edge. Warren immediately follows, followed up by a reluctant Sol who readies a bloodied kukri.

If I could, I'd hold Sol and Warren back and position those stakes into the ground again, let the wolves have their way with Captain Grouchy. But that would weaken us – which will in turn weaken _me_. So, I dutifully follow the three of them outside. It was us on the attack now hacking away at every wolf that pounces our way, until the cornucopia's perimeter was littered with the bodies of slice and diced mutts.

Just as I put a whimpering wolf out of its misery with a simple stab of my katana into its chest, _Horn of Plenty_ rings throughout the arena. On one accord, we all glance upward as a projection appears against the purple night sky – a Gamemaker special effect I guess. And of course, since no one has fallen today, the projector tells us so – ' _NO FALLEN' –_ as the seal of Panem does a few rotations before dissipating into a zillion pixels once the national anthem concludes. I can't help but think of that projection as an open display of our failure, but I push those thoughts aside. Sol was _right_. These were the One Hundredth Annual Hunger Games. If each Games were more unique than the last, then these Games were to be the _epitome_ of unique if it wasn't already. We'd have our day soon enough. Until then we'd have to take whatever the Gamemakers throw at us.

As the anthem concludes, I turn to look at Sarissa, who kicks a wolf mutt to death. How long will this last, I wonder?

"Does that quench your bloodlust for the day, Sarissa?" I ask her, smirking.

Scoffing, she squints her eyes at me, turning on her heels as she makes her way back to the cornucopia along with Warren and Sol. " _Shut the fuck up_ , One."

How someone so pretty could be so _uncouth_ was beyond me. I flick excess blood off my sword, following in her stead. "I was just _curious_..."


End file.
